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Requiem for an Assassin
Barry Eisler

REQUIEM FOR AN ASSASSIN
BOOKS BY BARRY EISLER
Rain Fall
Hard Rain
Rain Storm
Killing Rain
The Last Assassin
REQUIEM FOR AN ASSASSIN
BARRY EISLER
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA •
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario
M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books
Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s
Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books
Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a
division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11
Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group
(NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Roseland, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (a
division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd,
24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2007 by Barry Eisler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or
distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do
not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation
of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

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Eisler, Barry.
Requiem for an assassin / Barry Eisler.
p. cm.
ISBN: 1-4295-3535-0
1. Rain, John (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Japanese Americans—Fiction.
3. Murder for hire—Fiction. 4. Assassins—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.I85R47 2007 2007008805
813'.6—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers
and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor
the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur
after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and
does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their
content.
For Owen, Rachel, and Sandy, with love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments

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REQUIEM FOR AN ASSASSIN
1
JIM HILGER and his team sat hunched over a group of surveillance photos in a
budget hotel room in Kuta, on Bali’s famed west coast. The late-afternoon
monsoon rains had given way to a clear night sky, and the adjacent beach was
still noisy with revelers—Australians, drinking away the last night of a
holiday before returning to the grind back home; American frat kids, a bit
more adventurous than their peers in Fort Lauderdale, lured to Kuta by true
stories of cheap accommodations and oceanside discos and like-minded young
people searching for sin; dark-skinned Balinese beauties in bikini tops and
sarongs, looking for rich white boyfriends, or, failing that, a night or even
an hour in exchange for a proper tip in convertible currency. In fact, the
hotel was a popular stop for tourists who had found a local “date” nearby and
were in a hurry to consummate the transaction, and the high turnover, cash
basis, and reluctance of patrons to meet each other’s eyes made places like
this one good expedient safehouses, not just here in Indonesia, but in many
other countries where Hilger operated. Sex could be a good cover for secrecy;
salaciousness, for murder.
For security, the five of them had arrived one by one earlier that evening at
staggered times, and, so as not to stand out, each had come accompanied by an
appropriately nubile Balinese companion. Indeed, Hilger knew that two of the
men had arrived early enough to fully indulge the cover their temporary
girlfriends provided, but Hilger was untroubled by their behavior. He had
commanded men in war and understood their needs, and besides, he would rather
they get a taste of the local fauna early so they would be less inclined to
chase after it late at night. The man they were hunting was dangerous, and
Hilger wanted everyone sharp.
Hilger knew the man as Dox, said to be short for “unorthodox,” a nom de guerre
the man had acquired during his unsung service in Reagan-era Afghanistan. Once
upon a time, Dox had been a Marine sniper, one of the best, but these days
worked freelance. Hilger had used him three times. On the first two occasions,
Dox had performed superbly. The third had been a disaster, and was what the
present operation was all about.
“Look at this,” the man sitting across from Hilger said, pointing at a photo
taken through a 500mm lens. “We’ve seen him coming and going from his villa.
It’s isolated. I think we could take him there.”
Hilger nodded. The man’s suggestion was sensible. His name was Demeere—a big,
blond Belgian bastard and veteran of his country’s Détachement d’Agents de
Sécurité. The DAS guys provided security at Belgian embassies. They were
trained by Belgian special forces, comfortable in urban environments, and
typically multilingual. Demeere had been one of their standouts. As adept in a
particularly rigorous form of tai chi as he was with a knife, he had, over the
years, assisted Hilger with four successful “renditions” of terror suspects,
and Hilger knew his counsel was worth considering.
“I like the villa,” the man behind Demeere said. “Go with what you know,
that’s what I say.”
It took some effort on Hilger’s part not to grimace. Demeere, whose back was
to the speaker, evinced slightly less facial control.
Hilger looked up and observed the man for a moment. He was standing apart from
the rest of them, leaning against the wall by the window while the others sat
across from each other on the room’s twin beds. No one responded to his
comment. Even pointing out its vapidity would have been more engagement than
any of them seemed willing to grant him.
The man liked to refer to himself as Drano, and Hilger hadn’t liked that from
the start. Nicknames bestowed by comrades were an honor. If you tried to
invent one for yourself, it was a joke, a sign of narcissism and an underlying
lack of confidence. Hilger had known better at the time, but he’d lost so many
men in the last two years that he’d ignored the warning from his gut as he
went about restaffing. Stupid. Never time to do it right, always time to do it
over.

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The guy had come highly recommended, true. Former Navy SEAL, combat duty in
Afghanistan. But that kind of background was merely necessary, and not always
sufficient, for what Hilger demanded of his men. Anyway, even among SEALs
there was an occasional loser. Apparently, it had been Hilger’s bad luck to
come across one of them.
The man to Demeere’s left rotated his bald head, breaking the silence by
cracking the joints in his neck. “Better to wait,” he said, looking first at
Demeere, then at Hilger, and ignoring Drano completely. “His villa would be
convenient, sure, but it’s no coincidence he built the place in the middle of
all those rice paddies. You know how long it’ll take us to slog all the way
through to his house? If he’s got sensors deployed and sees us coming, he’ll
turn us into fertilizer one at a time. And I don’t want to go in on that
zigzagging little access road, either. He knows that’s the only approach, he’s
got to have it rigged. And trying to set up there while he’s gone would be
worse. I guarantee you he’s got layered systems that would warn him. Better to
take him on unfamiliar ground. The downside is more potential witnesses and
the other risks you get rendering someone in public, but overall our odds are
better.”
The man’s name was Frank Garza, but he was known in Hilger’s organization as
Pancho, the name given him by his Mexican mother. While Demeere had a
deceptively placid exterior, Pancho tended to radiate a not-to-be-fucked-with
aura that he had a hard time concealing. A former All-Marine boxing champion,
he also had a fourth degree black belt in Kenpo. One night he and Demeere had
gotten into a sparring match that had started out playful and then become
serious. To Hilger, it had been like watching an irresistible force and an
immovable object. If Hilger hadn’t stopped it, the two of them might have
crippled each other and destroyed a hotel room in the process.
“The question is, how much time do we have,” the fifth man said, leafing
through the photographs. “That town he lives in, Ubud, isn’t exactly huge, so
sooner or later he’ll wind up where we want him. But if we need to move fast,
we have to go where we know he’ll be. Right now that means the villa.”
The man’s name was Guthrie. His boyish good looks had made for excellent cover
during his service as a Federal Air Marshal, and the training he’d received
then, along with ferocious natural ability, made him their best combat
shooter. Unlike Demeere and Pancho, he was no martial artist, but nor did he
believe in fighting, preferring to settle disputes amicably with the Wilson
Combat .45 he carried in a belly band under an untucked shirt.
Hilger nodded, considering. There was a lot he hadn’t told them yet. They all
hailed from careers in need-to-know environments, and understood his
reticence. But maybe he had given them too little. At this point, keeping them
in the dark made them unable to properly weigh the costs and benefits, to plan
effectively. Yes, he decided. They needed to understand…if not the full
picture, then at least a larger part of it.
“You’re all being too cautious,” Drano said, still leaning against the wall
and looking down on them as though bored, or in judgment.
Hilger looked up, liking neither the man’s tone nor his choice of “you’re”
instead of “we’re.” The other men glanced at one another. Their expressions
were too subtle to be called disgusted, but Hilger knew disgust was what they
felt. This was hardly the first time Drano had insisted on offering his
unsolicited and useless “expertise,” and they were sick of his weak bullshit.
The man had been a mistake. And if Hilger didn’t deal with it soon, his men
would rightly judge him for it.
“Really,” Hilger said, mildly.
“Really,” Drano said, nodding his head aggressively. “One man, night-vision
goggles, just before dawn, a kerosene bomb on that thatched roof of his. We
take him when he runs outside.”
“You going to take the neighbors, too?” Hilger asked, his tone even milder
now, bordering on gentle. “They’ll come out when they see fire. And do you
know which way Dox’ll run? Tell us, so we can be in position. Oh, and police
and firefighters, we can expect a few of them to show up, so we’ll need a plan

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for that, too. And the attention we’ll get during and after from a nocturnal
blazing Ubud villa, we’d all appreciate any pointers you could offer us there.
This is all assuming you don’t trip a sensor and get your head blown off on
the approach to the house, of course. But you could probably bat the bullet
out of the air with your own dick if it came to that, right?”
The man shrugged, too stupid, or proud, to admit his mistake. “Sometimes you
have to take a chance if you want to get something done,” he said.
The other men weren’t even looking at Drano now. In fact, they’d been making
their distrust apparent through body language for a while now, and Drano had
picked up on it. It was why he was standing apart—he knew he wasn’t welcome.
And the stupid criticism was really just a misguided bid for attention, to be
accepted among company to which he aspired to belong.
Hilger suddenly recognized the reason he’d been withholding information from
the men, information they needed to plan the operation. It was because he knew
this bozo was untrustworthy. And rather than fix the problem, he’d been living
with it, hoping it would magically take care of itself. Now that he realized
it, he was quietly furious at his own weakness. But all right, better late
than never. The man had to go.
He turned to Demeere. “How are we staffed for this?”
“Three is the bare minimum,” Demeere said without hesitating, and Hilger knew
from the readiness of the answer that the big Belgian already understood.
“Four is comfortable. Five is a hundred percent.”
Hilger nodded. “All right. Then we’re in good shape.” He glanced behind Drano.
“Close those drapes, will you?” he said. “They’re open at the edges, it’s
sloppy.”
Drano turned and adjusted the drapes. Even without all the other faults that
had combined to disqualify him, the cluelessness he displayed right then would
have been enough.
In the two seconds during which Drano’s back was turned, Hilger reached with
his right hand for the SIG P232 he kept as backup in an ankle holster; grabbed
a pillow with his left; and pulled the pillow around the muzzle of the gun,
holding the ends tight at his right wrist so that the gun was completely
enclosed within it. He raised both arms, aiming at Drano’s head.
Drano turned back. He saw the pillow and the way Hilger was holding it.
Without giving him time to process the information or react in any way, Hilger
pressed the trigger. There was the crack of a muffled gunshot, and a small,
dark hole appeared in Drano’s forehead. His body jerked as though something
had shocked him, then he buckled and collapsed to the floor.
The sound of the shot was loud, but not terribly so. The P232 was chambered in
.380, a smaller round than the .357 Hilger carried in his primary, a full-size
P226. He had chosen the backup just now precisely for its reduced noise
profile. And of course the pillow muffled some of the report. Maybe some guy
in the next room would look up and wonder what he’d just heard, but when there
was no follow-up, he’d happily go back to fucking and sucking and whatever
else he was doing that brought him here in the first place.
Drano was lying on his back now, his legs folded under him, his eyes open. A
small trickle of blood began to run down his face from the hole in his
forehead. Not much, though. The other reason Hilger had selected the P232 was
to lessen the chance of the round blowing out the back of Drano’s head, which
would have made a mess.
Demeere pulled several tissues out of a box on the nightstand, knelt, and,
with his thumb, wadded the paper into the forehead hole, stanching the trickle
of blood. Hilger nodded slightly in admiration. There was nothing flashy about
Demeere. There didn’t need to be; he was rock solid. How many men could
prevent a mess as calmly as he just did?
Hilger collected and pocketed the spent casing, then decocked the pistol and
returned it to his ankle. The room was quiet for a moment while they listened
for sounds of disturbance, for any sign that someone might want to
investigate. There were none.
Pancho said, “Looks like Drano’s gone down the drain.”

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Pancho and Demeere laughed. Only Guthrie looked at all discomfited. But he
hadn’t been with Hilger as long as the other men.
“Well,” Pancho said, “I’m glad that’s done. Been wanting to do it myself.”
Hilger nodded. “I should have taken care of it sooner.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pancho said with a shrug. “It’s not the kind of thing
I’d want you doing lightly.”
They laughed again. After a moment, Hilger said, “We’ll pull up the van when
we’re done. Load him in, take him to the boat, punch holes in him and dump him
at sea. We’ll be better with just the four of us than we would have been with
a weak link like that one.”
Everyone nodded. Demeere tossed a blanket over the corpse and sat back on the
bed.
“All right,” Hilger said, after a moment. “Dox…isn’t the ultimate objective.
If he were, we could take our time. But our interest in him is secondary.”
Pancho hunched forward, his head dropping as though he were zeroing in for a
knockout. “Access agent, then?”
Hilger nodded. “An unwilling one.”
“Who’s the primary?” Pancho asked.
Hilger looked at Demeere, who he suspected had already guessed.
Demeere said, “John Rain.”
Pancho looked at Hilger. “The freelancer? The one who took out Winters?”
Hilger nodded. “And Calver and Gibbons, too. Those losses were why I had to
dig so deep and bring in a mistake like Drano. It’s hard to find good people.”
Pancho returned his gaze to Demeere. “How’d you know?”
Demeere shook his head to indicate he wasn’t privy to any knowledge Pancho
lacked. “I didn’t. I guessed.”
Pancho cracked his knuckles and stared at Demeere as though considering how
much credence to give the man’s response.
Guthrie said, “Rain…this is the Japanese assassin, right?”
Demeere nodded. “Half Japanese. His mother was American. But he looks
Japanese. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never seen him. Not many
people have.”
Hilger said, “I have.”
The third time Hilger had used Dox, the man was supposed to eliminate Rain.
Dox knew Rain from Afghanistan, a connection Hilger thought would enable the
former sniper to get close enough to do the job. He’d gotten close enough, all
right, so close that Rain and Dox had joined forces and then in the space of a
single year had torn apart two of Hilger’s operations. True, it hadn’t been
personal—neither man had understood what those operations were really
about—but Hilger’s losses had been considerable. Among other things, he had
been forced to abandon the Hong Kong cover he had been living and relocate to
Shanghai.
Also, at the disastrous conclusion of that second blown op, Dox had leveled
Hilger from behind with a chair launched from the top of a riser of stairs. It
could have been worse—if Dox had been properly armed, Hilger would be dead
now. As it was, the massive bruise from the impact had lasted for a month; the
memory, considerably longer. Hilger couldn’t deny that he took some pleasure
in imagining how he would soon squeeze Dox for the information he wanted.
Pancho was still staring at Demeere. The half-Mexican was a reliable operator,
but prone to feel slighted easily and to react with anger.
Hilger decided to cut short a possible argument. “Demeere was in charge of the
op to try to render Rain out of Bangkok. He was running Winters and a local
team there. That’s how he knew just now. How he guessed.”
Pancho eased back an inch on the bed. “How’d it go down?”
“We don’t know all the details,” Demeere said. “It seems Rain spotted the
ambush Winters had set, and attacked. Two of the locals got away. Two others
Rain killed with a knife. Winters was found in an alley with defensive wounds
on his arms and a slashed subclavian artery. Bled out internally.”
“Rain beat Winters in a fucking knife fight?” Pancho asked. “I knew Winters.
He had a kali background. Trained in the Philippines. He was good with a

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blade.”
“Rain’s had a lot of training, too,” Hilger said. “Judo. Boxing. Edged weapons
when he was with Special Forces. And a hell of a lot of practical experience.”
Pancho nodded as though considering. Demeere looked at him and asked, “Does
that make you nervous?”
Pancho returned the look. “No.”
Demeere offered a slight, chilly smile. “It should.”
Pancho smiled back. “Maybe Rain just got lucky. Or maybe Winters wasn’t being
run properly.”
Guthrie said, “Anyway, the point is, Winters was good.”
Demeere, his eyes still on Pancho, said in lightly accented but otherwise
perfect English, “Fuck-all good.”
“What about Calver and Gibbons?” Guthrie asked.
“Shot to death,” Hilger said. “In a Manila restroom, while they were trying to
protect an agent in another op.”
Pancho looked at Hilger. “So you’re looking for payback. To take Rain out.”
Hilger shook his head. “I want him to do a job.”
Pancho squinted and pursed his lips as though thinking. Hilger didn’t know
whether he was confused or disappointed or both.
“If he’s freelance,” Guthrie asked, “why not just hire him, through channels?”
“Two problems,” Hilger said. “First, I don’t know how to contact him. I tried
to locate him, and couldn’t even find where he is. At one point he was known
to be in Tokyo, then supposedly in São Paulo or Rio. The reports are all
several years out of date, though, and I doubt he’s still living in either
country. And even if he were, it wouldn’t be enough to go on. Brazil has the
world’s largest Japanese expatriate community. Rain would be invisible there.
More so in Japan. He always kept a low profile, but these days he might as
well be a ghost.”
Guthrie said, “What’s the second problem?”
Hilger shrugged. “For now, let’s just say that I doubt what I want him for is
something he’d do voluntarily. Dox is his friend, one of only a few. That
means Dox knows how to contact him, and it means Dox is the leverage to make
Rain cooperate.”
“They’re that close?” Guthrie said.
Hilger nodded. “I saw Dox carry Rain over his shoulder out of a firefight at
Kwai Chung harbor in Hong Kong. Five million dollars in play, and Dox walked
away from it to save his partner when he got hit. So I’d say they’re close,
yeah.”
Pancho said, “What you’ve got in mind, the thing you want Rain for, you can’t
handle in-house?”
Again, Hilger detected disappointment. He shook his head. “Rain is the right
resource for this. We just have to get to him.”
They were all quiet for a moment. Guthrie said, “How much time do we have,
then? To snatch Dox.”
Hilger shuffled through a few more of the photos, looking for a pattern. He
felt something beginning to cohere.
“We can give it a few more days,” Hilger said. “If we haven’t had an opening
at that point, we can work the villa angle. But I agree with Pancho, it’s high
risk and I’d prefer something else. The main thing is that we take him totally
unaware. Because without the element of surprise, taking him alive and
functioning is going to be bloody. Close quarters he’s not Rain, but believe
me, he’s plenty dangerous.”
Pancho squinted. “Rain is that good?”
Hilger nodded, remembering how Rain had tracked him to Hong Kong. No one had
ever turned the tables on Hilger like that before, and Hilger knew he was
lucky to have survived it. The experience had spooked him, he had to admit,
and for this, along with his more concrete rationales, he wasn’t going to let
Rain continue to roam the earth when the current operation was done.
“He must be getting old,” Guthrie said. “He’s a Vietnam vet, isn’t he?”
Hilger nodded. “He went in late, though, when he was seventeen, so he’s young

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for that conflict. But even if his best years are past him, tell me, do you
know of anyone else who’s survived in this business, on his own, with no
organization to protect him, for as long as Rain?”
The room was silent.
“There’s a reason he’s survived all this time,” Hilger went on. “And it’s not
luck. No one stays lucky that long. It’s because he’s good. He’s better than
all the people he’s killed, and he’s killed plenty—more than we have all
together. So you don’t want to think of him as old, or slow, or used up, or
burnt out, or anything else he wants you to think so you’ll underestimate him.
You do, and you’ll wind up another one of his statistics.”
“Like Winters,” Demeere said.
“Like Winters,” Hilger said, looking at each of them. “We don’t want any more
losses like that. So we’re going to be patient for a few more days. With three
of us on motorcycles and one in the van, we can cover the likely spots and
converge quickly on wherever Dox is spotted. Like Guthrie said, Ubud’s not
that big a town.”
Everyone nodded, accepting the matter as settled, at least temporarily. Pancho
tilted his head toward the body on the floor. “You want me to bring around the
van?”
Hilger nodded and started to collect the surveillance photos. They all stood.
Guthrie asked, “Where do you think we’ll spot him?”
Hilger considered one of the photos. “Look at this guy. If he weren’t such a
good sniper, he’d probably be playing professional football. How much does a
guy like this eat every day?”
Demeere smiled and said, “Plenty.”
Hilger nodded. “Exactly. I don’t know what kind of food supplies he’s got laid
in, but sooner or later, he’s going to have to go out for more. That’s what
we’re waiting for.”
2
DOX WOKE WITH a long, pleasant groan. He stretched out across the king bed,
curling his toes, liking the feel of the cotton sheets against his body. From
the sun on the gauze curtains, it must have been past seven. He’d slept late.
But why not? He wasn’t on a job. He deserved to take it easy. Taking it easy
was what Bali was all about. Hell, it was why he’d come here. It was why he’d
built this villa.
He got up and walked naked across the sisal rug to the bathroom to take a
leak. It was funny, when he’d first imagined this place, he thought it would
be the ultimate bachelor pad. But now that it was done, he found he was
reluctant to share it. Bedding down with someone inside a place he’d built
himself would feel more intimate than he was ready for. Or rather, he hadn’t
met anyone yet who he was ready to be that intimate with. He wanted to meet
someone good, someone right, but of the many women he’d known and enjoyed, he
just couldn’t get that close with any of them. There was Rain’s lady, of
course, Delilah, and a man would have to be gay or in a coma not to have some
kind of thing for her, but even acknowledging to yourself that you had a
hankering for your bro’s woman was a dangerous thing. And doing anything to
act on it would be an unpardonable sin, not to mention a declaration of war
against the kind of man you’d have to be insane to want for an enemy.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he pined for Delilah or anything like that. It was more
like, she was just the kind of woman he wished he could meet. Smart,
confident, and of course drop-dead gorgeous. Semi-mysterious, with a tasty
little edge to keep you on your toes. Like what Angelina Jolie might be if she
were blond and had taken up spy work for the Mossad instead of acting.
Well, he’d keep looking. And it wasn’t like he was suffering in the meantime.
He had a couple of honeys tucked away in Kuta, only an hour away, and several
in Bangkok and Jakarta who went into paroxysms whenever he called to say he
was coming to town.
He finished urinating, then looked at himself in the mirror. He liked what he
saw: just shy of six feet and a solid two hundred twenty-five pounds, with a
six-pack and no fat other than a pair of moderate love handles the ladies

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seemed to find endearing. Exercise was the key. He liked to do something
different every day: weights, the jump rope, a Cross Fit routine, some
kettlebell stuff he’d learned from the Russians and bodyweight exercises Rain
had shown him. He figured his body looked about ten years younger than the
forty he actually was, which was good. He wanted to be able to keep chasing
twenty-five-year-olds for as long as possible without feeling like a dirty old
man.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain himself forever, but that didn’t
really bother him. He didn’t care if he lost his hair, either, although at
this point it didn’t look like he was going to. There were only two things he
would miss, when the time came: being able to take out a dime-size target at
five hundred yards in low light, and getting it up as quick as a
fourteen-year-old with a can of Crisco and a Carmen Electra video. Young
enough to get wood right away, but old enough to last pretty much as long as
he wanted, that was the best thing about being forty. Waiting to come until
you’d given some pretty lady as much pleasure as she could stand, until she
was practically dying from it and begging you for mercy, well, if there was a
better high than that on this earth, he’d like to know what it could be.
Of course, when that day came, when his hands got shaky and his pecker turned
weak, he’d have to remind himself he was lucky. Not everyone lived long enough
to have to deal with such eventualities. He was planning to, but you never
really knew. The main thing was to enjoy yourself while you could, because in
the end, everybody’s moment was brief. Especially in the line of work he was
in.
He walked over to the window and opened the curtain, letting the sun warm his
body. God, what a vista. Nothing but blue skies, white clouds, and green rice
fields dotted with coconut trees. He loved standing here and surveying his
realm, not just because the view was so good, but because this was one of the
few places in the world where he felt comfortable silhouetting himself this
way. He’d taken out enough people through the glass of their own windows to
have developed a permanent shyness about any room with a view. Sure, he could
have spent a lifetime in therapy doing successive aversion training or some
other bullshit to get over his nervousness, or he could just have all his
windows custom-built out of aluminum oxynitride by a company called Surmet.
They called their product ALON and it could stop multiple .50 caliber
armor-piercing rounds, meaning an ordinary sniper bullet had about the same
chance of getting through as a mosquito. How did those MasterCard ads go?
“Aluminum oxynitride bullet-resistant glass—ten dollars a square inch. Peace
of mind that no one’s about to blow your brains out with a scoped
rifle—priceless.”
He pulled on shorts and a tee-shirt and spent an hour hitting the weights in
his first-floor exercise room, then showered and made himself a giant protein
smoothie for breakfast. A cup of milk, a couple bananas, papayas, mangos, and
four raw eggs. The eggs were his last, he noted—he’d have to pick up some
more. And he was getting low on fruit, too.
He drank it all down while using the laptop he kept on the kitchen table to
catch up on the latest horseshit in the Middle East and elsewhere. A long time
ago he’d been troubled over the way he’d left the Marines, but these days you
couldn’t pay him enough to be part of the government. The hypocrisy of it all
was enough to make you sick. He wondered how people could stand for it. If he
were a philosopher king or a benevolent dictator, the only jobs he thought he
might enjoy more than his current occupation, he’d have a rule that you could
only authorize a war if you were actually going to go off and fight it. That’d
get the politicians singing “Kumbaya” right quick.
When he was done with breakfast and the news, he checked the URL that ran a
live feed from the four CCTV cameras he had positioned around the house.
Everything was normal. Not that he was expecting any visitors, of course, but
a little extra assurance never hurt anyone. He wished he could get a dog—for
security, a low-tech little yapper was hard to beat—but he traveled too much
for it to be feasible. Maybe if he settled down a little more, found a

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brown-skinned woman with almond-shaped eyes. Get her pregnant, raise a family,
teach the kids to hunt and fish and shoot like he could. Yeah, maybe one day.
Getting dressed to go out in Bali didn’t usually mean much—this morning, just
shorts, a tee-shirt, and sandals. He would have preferred to accessorize with
a baby Glock or one of the other pistols he kept handy, but you always had to
weigh accessibility, concealability, the likelihood of need, and the
likelihood of getting busted for violating Indonesia’s draconian gun laws.
This morning, he felt the balance was against the Glock. But that didn’t mean
he would be unarmed: he put a Spyderco Clipit Civilian in his front right
pocket and hung a Fred Perrin La Griffe with a two-inch spear-point blade
around his neck inside the shirt. He grabbed the big backpack he used for
groceries, opened the garage, and took out his motorcycle, a 250cc
wine-colored Honda Rebel, beat-up, dirty, and reliable as hell.
It was still morning but it was already getting hot, and the air was plenty
sticky. He stood there for a moment, just appreciating the feeling of another
day in paradise. He liked everything about it, the smell of the mud, even of
the duck excrement that fertilized the paddies. It didn’t smell like shit to
him at all, it smelled like life, real life far away from all the places
covered in concrete and asphalt and choking on diesel. It smelled like the
earth itself.
He pulled on his helmet, hating the thing as always because of the heat. The
locals didn’t always adhere to Indonesia’s helmet ordinances, but as an
obvious foreigner he found it best to do what he could to avoid standing out,
especially when standing out meant disrespecting the host country’s laws.
There was no driveway as such; just a quarter-mile-long dirt road. He fired up
the bike and motored slowly forward, looking around automatically as he moved,
noting the hot spots, checking to see if anything seemed out of order, if
anything rubbed him the wrong way. There was no good way to get to him at the
villa, which was half the point of its location and design, but the least
worst place for an ambush would be somewhere along this road, and so he was
always extra alert coming and going here. But nothing was at all amiss this
morning, just the usual dogs barking agreeably in the background, the usual
farmers sweating at their labors amid the thigh-high rice.
He turned right at the end of the road and picked up speed. A 250cc bike was
small for a guy his size, but it’s what everyone around here used and the
roads were too narrow and winding to go very fast anyway.
He pulled into the parking lot of the Bintang supermarket on Jalan Raya Ubud
and killed the engine. The Bintang was in a two-story stone building with a
wood-and-red-tile roof, surrounded by ferns and bamboo trees. It was by far
the biggest market in town, and the one Dox liked when he needed more than
just a few supplies. Out front were the usual complement of motorbikes,
bicycles, and cars. A small dog, one of the scores that roamed Ubud
unsupervised, lay in the shade under the front awning, conserving its energy
in the gathering tropical heat.
Inside the store, a couple of mothers with diapered toddlers in tow prowled
the cramped aisles, shopping for tonight’s dinner, a few household supplies,
maybe a bit of candy to keep the baby smiling. Dox had nowhere special to go,
and spent a leisurely half-hour moving methodically through the store and
loading up a small cart. When he was done, he rolled up to the register, where
a pretty girl he knew as Wan was working.
“How are you today, Mr. Dox?” the girl asked him with a beautiful Bali smile.
Dox smiled back, but kept a little distance in his expression. Wan was a
tasty-looking little treat, no question, but a sensible man knew not to shit
where he ate. Or in this case, shopped. Besides, he could get all he wanted
and more an hour away, in Kuta and Sanur.
“Fine, Wan, and how about you? Putting up okay with the heat?”
The girl laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, Mr. Dox, this isn’t hot today, you
know that.”
He made a show of mopping his brow. “Darlin’, you’re tougher than I am.”
The groceries cost him a whopping four hundred thousand rupiah—about forty

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bucks. He wondered if anyone had ever done a study on the prospects of
countries where buying groceries cost half a million of the local unit of
currency. He doubted there was much correlation between economic health and
all those zeros.
He loaded the groceries into his backpack, shouldered it, said goodbye to Wan,
and headed outside.
A foreigner, a big blond dude, was pacing in front of the building near where
Dox had parked the Honda, a mobile phone to his ear. He was wearing shades and
speaking a language Dox didn’t recognize—not German, not French, Dutch, maybe?
When he looked up and saw Dox, he closed the phone and smiled.
“Hello, maybe you can help me,” he said, with a slight, indeterminate accent.
“Do you speak English?”
“Depends on who you ask,” Dox said. The guy seemed like your typical lost
European tourist—not exactly an unknown species in the area—but still, Dox
immediately glanced left and right. The perimeter check was a learned reflex,
triggered whenever a stranger tried to engage him. The danger is that the
person asking for directions, or the time, or a light, or whatever, is there
to distract you from his cohorts, who are flanking you from your blind side,
and Dox wasn’t about to get caught that way.
To Dox’s left, a guy in a full-face motorcycle helmet was leaning against the
wall under the awning, doing nothing in particular. On the right—another guy
in a full-face helmet, moving leisurely in Dox’s direction.
Later, his conscious mind would articulate all the factors that his
unconscious had just instantly, wordlessly spotted and assessed. He would be
able to describe what was wrong with this picture: the positions of the guys
in the helmets relative to the blond dude; the way they were waiting in places
in which they had no ostensible reason to wait; that they were wearing helmets
in the heat even though they were off their bikes; how smoothly and
deliberately the one on the right was closing the distance.
But for now, his understanding took the form only of a sudden heat in his gut.
He knew the feeling. He especially knew not to doubt it. A single
word—fuck!—blaring in his mind like a klaxon, he braced and reached for the
Civilian.
The blond guy moved—much faster than Dox thought he’d be able to, given his
size. He took a long step forward and pivoted, and then his right foot crashed
into Dox’s midsection like a freight train.
Dox had just enough time to react by tightening his stomach, and that saved
him from having the wind knocked out of him entirely. But the kick still
blasted him backward and cost him his grip on the knife. The Civilian
clattered to the ground, and Dox struggled to regain his balance. A part of
him understood that he was already far behind, that whatever this was, it was
going very badly.
One of the guys in helmets latched onto his right wrist. Dox found his
footing, pivoted, and smashed his free elbow into the guy’s head. If he had
connected with the guy’s skull the blow might have killed him, or at least
knocked him off, but the helmet kept the guy in the game, and now he was
dragging on Dox’s arm, trying to pull him off balance. Dox spun clockwise,
getting behind the guy, sucking him in close with his giant forearm, and
reached under the tee-shirt with his left hand. He pulled free the La Griffe,
its ring handle encircling his first two fingers and its razor-sharp blade
protruding from his fist like a claw. But before he could get it under helmet
boy’s chin and rip out his throat, the blond guy had wrapped himself around
Dox’s left arm, both hands securing the wrist. Something stung Dox in the neck
from behind and he knew with a sickening lurch what it was. He struggled
against the men on his arms. They felt heavier, and his vision blurred. He
staggered and thought, John, fuck, I’m sorry. And then he was gone.
3
I SHOULD HAVE known they’d get to me through Dox. He was no soft target, true,
but he was easier than I am, and a little easier is sometimes all it takes.
I was living with Delilah in Paris at the time. Or living with her separately,

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you could say. Her job was such that security required different apartments,
and various other minor inconveniences. Although I suppose that when half the
romance is a retired contract killer and the other half a committed Mossad
agent, separate dwellings can be the least of your troubles.
I liked Paris, liked almost everything about it. Along with Barcelona, where
I’d spent a month with Delilah a year earlier, it was as beautiful a city as
I’ve ever seen, the architecture and the open spaces and the endlessly
walkable streets. I loved the coffee culture, and relished a place where I
could indulge my enthusiasm for the bean in an endless profusion of sidewalk
cafés. I wondered at little mysteries, like the abandoned bicycles chained to
the park gates at the place des Vosges, slumped insensate against their
shackles, their wheels bent and broken, like crippled pets whose owners cared
too much to kill them and who compromised instead by leaving them to die. I
thought of the generations that had visited the city before me, dreamers and
cynics, romantics and radicals, the ones who had come here to find something,
and the ones who wanted only to forget what they had lost or left behind.
I’d never been to Paris before, and when I first arrived, my impressions were
all secondhand. I expected an ambience born of architecture, romance, history,
gustation. I pictured the Louvre and its glass pyramid; the Seine and Notre
Dame; intellectuals arguing over philosophy and smoking ceaselessly in
clusters of Left Bank cafés.
What I saw on the train ride from the airport, therefore, was unsettling.
Paris, it seemed, was besieged, ringed with tenement towns not unlike Rio’s
favelas. Many of these were walled off, at least from the highways and the
train tracks, and the gray concrete barriers, some topped with razor wire,
were covered, every inch of them, with ugly, angry graffiti, like sea walls
braced against a seething tide. By the time I arrived at Gare du Nord in Paris
proper, the graffitied walls had abated, but their import lingered: this was a
civilization encircled by its enemies, living uneasily under some implicit,
eroding truce, slowly losing a war the signs of which were everywhere but that
its citizens preferred to ignore.
I took a small apartment on rue Beautrellis in the Fourth Arrondissement, the
same block where Jim Morrison had once lived, on the edge of the Marais. The
rent was high, but I’d walked away from an operation in Japan a year earlier
with two million tax-free dollars, and I could afford it. I liked the feel of
the neighborhood, the glow of its streetlamps, the sounds of laughter and
conversation from its bars and bistros. In a strange way, the area reminded me
in its intimacy of Sengoku, the Tokyo neighborhood I’d been forced to leave a
thousand years earlier.
Delilah’s work kept her busy, and we had to be careful about seeing each other
regardless, so I had ample time alone. That was good: partly because being
alone suits me; partly because in Paris it gave me time to adjust to the new
sensation of having someone in my life. It wasn’t just the unfamiliarity of
plans several times a week—dinner at Le Petit Célestin on the quai des
Célestins; a walk on the narrow streets of the Ile Saint-Louis; a night at my
apartment; sometimes a night at hers. It was the whole notion, the feeling, of
being someplace primarily because of another person’s presence there. There
was a lot I liked about that feeling, but it was taking me a while to get used
to it, and I was glad circumstances permitted me to go slowly. I used the time
alone to explore the city, and read, and practice French with tapes. It was my
fourth language, after Japanese, English, and Portuguese, and I remembered
some of it from high school. It was coming back quickly.
I’d been telling myself for a long time that I wanted out of the life, but it
was only recently, with Delilah, that the longing had become real. For a
while, she had been heading in the same direction. Her organization blamed her
for losing a colleague, an assassin called Gil, in an otherwise successful
terrorist takedown in Hong Kong, and was set to cut her loose. But she’d faced
them down and forced her way back in, and now she was more determined than
ever to stay.
I was ambivalent about her work. On the one hand, it gave me space, which I

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liked. On the other hand, her continued presence in the life inhibited my own
efforts to leave it. Part of it was the behavioral cues—the need for a ready
cover story when I was with her in case she ran into someone she knew, and her
routine perimeter checks and other tactics—which continued to remind me of who
I’d always been. Part of it was ongoing operational necessity, because as long
as she was in the life, she was at risk, and if you’re with someone at risk,
you’d better believe you’re at risk, too. And part of it was notional: if I
was this involved with someone still in the life, how far could I have left
the life behind?
I pushed her sometimes, but not too hard. I’d learned Delilah was a fighter,
and if she felt she was being doubted, or second-guessed, or in any way talked
down to, she had a tendency to come out swinging.
“Why not retire?” I asked her once, over café-crèmes and croissants at Le Loir
dans la Théière, a restaurant on the rue des Rosiers named after the dormouse
in the teacup in Alice in Wonderland. Delilah had introduced me to the place,
and I loved the mismatched chairs and small wooden tables, the eclectic wall
art, the wonderful smell of years of fresh ground coffee. “We could buy an
apartment on the beach in Barcelona. Make love to the sounds of the waves at
night, walk on the beach in the morning. Nothing but the feel of the sun and
the smell of coffee and cava and no bad memories.”
She smiled and pushed back a strand of blond hair. Her blue eyes were lit by
sunlight coming through the restaurant’s large front windows. “You make it
sound enticing. Especially the making love part.”
“That was my favorite, too.”
She laughed. “I don’t know, John. I don’t know.”
I took a sip of coffee and watched her. I liked it when she called me John. My
Rolodex is slim, and the few people in it tend not to use my first name.
Midori had called me Jun, short for Junichi, my Japanese given name, and at
the time I had liked that very much, too. But that was before she had betrayed
me to protect our infant son, and thereby denied me a part in his life. Among
the bad memories I had just mentioned, Midori held a prominent position.
“What would you do if you were doing something else?” I asked. “If you’d never
gotten into the life. Do you ever think about that?”
“Sometimes,” she allowed.
“What would it be?”
“I don’t know,” she said again. “Maybe fashion photography. That’s the cover
I’ve been living in Paris, and I like it. I suppose I could have done it for
real.”
“Then do it now.”
She took my hand. “You know I can’t. Iran is poised to go nuclear, we have
Hamas in the territories and Hezbollah in Lebanon. Things are going to get
worse before they get better, if they ever get better at all. I can’t just
walk away to photograph anorexic girls on catwalks.”
“Is that all you’d be walking away for?”
“You know what I mean.”
I tried again one evening as we stood pressed together on Pont Sully, taking
in the glowing lights of the Ile Saint-Louis and the illuminated buttresses of
Notre Dame. “Your organization is using you,” I told her. “You’ve said so
yourself. Why don’t you just walk away?”
I felt her stiffen, and she took a half-step back. “I’ve told you before,” she
said, looking at me. “The ‘organization’ isn’t the point. This is about my
country. My people.”
I shook my head. “I don’t buy it. I think this is about you standing up to the
men who blamed you for Gil getting killed in Hong Kong. Showing them you’re
tougher than they are, that they can’t drive you out.”
“Why does everything have to be so one dimensional with you? Yes, I have
personal reasons for staying. My dignity is involved, fine, I admit it. But
why can’t you at least acknowledge there are other reasons, too?”
“Because…”
“I’ll tell you why. It’s because you’ve never been tied to anything larger

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than yourself. You don’t believe in anything. So you can’t imagine someone who
does. She must be either deluded or lying or naive.”
I felt myself flush. “I understand your selfless reasons better than you know.
I also understand the more devotion you give to the organization or the corps
or the country, the more it’ll hollow you out when you realize your love was
always unrequited. The more you’ll feel betrayed.”
We were quiet for a moment. She said, “It doesn’t have to be that way for
everyone.”
“You know anyone whose experience has been different?”
We stared at each other. Her eyes were narrowed and her nostrils flared
slightly with her breathing. That’s the way it was with us. We could go from
bliss and harmony to anger and recriminations as fast and with as little
warning as a tropical storm. What made it bearable, what made it good, was
that the foul weather would pass with equal suddenness, usually leaving
something glorious in its wake.
“Anyway,” I said, “I am tied to something larger than myself. I’m tied to
you.”
Her eyes softened. Then she stepped in close and kissed me. I turned my head
away, still irritated, but she reached up and turned me back. I resisted for
another moment, mostly for form’s sake, and then gave in.
We stood like that for a minute or so, and the kiss grew into something more.
I could feel her breasts, the heat of her skin, and suddenly I wanted badly to
be alone with her someplace.
She broke the kiss and hooked her fingers through my belt. “Let’s go to your
apartment,” she said. “We can fight better there.”
We did. And things were good again, until next time, when the pattern would
repeat itself.
But between the periodic swings from bitter argument to sweet resolution,
things were mostly good. I haven’t been deeply involved with many women, but
among them, only Delilah really knew about, and accepted, what I was beginning
to try to think of as my past. The surprising depth of our mutual chemistry,
and the improbability of the romance it led to, was a quiet miracle for me.
Delilah shared with me intimacies that I sensed came from the deepest places
within her, aspects of her mind and her body that by long habit she had
learned to protect ferociously and that she conceded now only slowly,
cautiously, with fear-tinged hope.
I found myself opening up with her, as well. I’d meant it when I told her I
was getting attached. I’d been alone so long, I’d learned to conceive of
myself that way, but slowly and strangely, my conception of myself was
beginning to include someone else. Sometimes the attachment scared me, and
felt like a burden. Other times it seemed like a life raft, or at least like
ballast. Either way, it was real, and deepening.
But one thing I didn’t share with Delilah was the onset of periodic…anxiety
attacks, for want of a better description. Occasionally, I would get so lost
in a book in a café that I would neglect to look up when I heard someone come
in, or so lost in thought on a morning stroll that I’d suddenly realize an
entire minute had elapsed and I hadn’t checked my back. At those moments, I’d
be gripped by a kind of horror, the feeling you get if you accidentally run a
red light at full speed and miraculously manage to breeze through the
intersection unscathed. You can tell yourself no harm, no foul, but still you
know you fucked up, that in another universe you were annihilated by a truck
coming from your left, or you mowed down a young mother stepping off the curb,
or were overtaken by some similar catastrophe. A primal part of your mind
screams, How could you be so careless? Do you want to die?
I was used to living with fear, and there was always a reason for it,
typically that someone was trying to kill me. Now that the causes of fear were
growing distant, the fear itself diminishing, anxiety was filling the vacuum.
Had I been afraid so long that I needed something to be afraid of, something
the fear could focus on?
I tried taking long walks at night, the more deserted the streets, the better.

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There was an area in the Eighteenth Arrondissement, known as La Goutte d’Or,
near Barbès, that I particularly favored. Decorated with the incinerated husks
of cars the locals had torched, and inhabited by dealers, beggars, and
illegals from the Maghreb, the area had a dangerous, desperate edge that kept
me on my toes. Its street denizens would observe me as I moved through, not
knowing what to make of me. I was in France, but my face was Japanese; my
attire was civilian, but my vibe was anything but. Aside from occasional
offers of drugs, they mostly left me alone.
Once, a tall Moroccan with a shaved head and ears weighed down by multiple
metal studs started pacing me from behind while I walked. I calmly glanced
back at him, and at the two friends trailing in his wake, to let them know I
was aware of their presence, and to signal thereby that I wasn’t afraid,
stupid, or likely to be easy. He mistook my cautionary glance as an opening,
though, and called out to me in Moroccan-accented French, “What you doing
here, man? You want to buy something? I help you find it. What you want?”
I checked the area to ensure I wasn’t being flanked, then stopped and turned
to him. “I’m not what you’re looking for,” I said in French.
But he kept coming. He might have been too stupid to have understood my
signals. Or maybe he had decided to resolve his cognitive dissonance over my
appearance and vibe by more closely examining me, rather than just shrugging
and moving on.
“No, man,” he said. “Wait up. I just want to help.”
His friends were fanning out now, moving toward my flanks. I felt adrenaline
churn through my system, and damn if its hot rush wasn’t almost sweet. I
checked my rear again. All clear.
It was going to be a fast interview, I could tell. One, maybe two more
questions to distract me and confirm my vulnerability; a sucker punch to drop
me and signal his friends to move in; a joyous multiple stomping; then off
with my wallet, watch, and anything else I would no longer be needing.
“It’s cool,” he said, coming into range. “I know you come for something here
in La Goutte. I want…”
Most people find it hard to do two things at once, like complete a sentence
and avoid a palm heel to the nose. Which was why I nailed him that way in
mid-thought. It wasn’t the world’s hardest shot, but as a simple setup, it
didn’t need to be. It just needed to disrupt his focus and rock him back onto
his heels. Which it did.
I stepped past him, my right hand catching his throat in an eagle claw grip
and my right leg sweeping both his legs from under him. But for the throat
grab and substitution of concrete for a mat, it was pretty much the classic
osoto-gari, or big outer leg reap, I had performed hundreds of thousands of
times in my years at the Kodokan. Basic, but still one of my favorite throws.
For a split second, Mr. Helper was suspended horizontally. Then he was
accelerating downward, assisted substantially by the downward force I was
exerting on his neck. The back of his skull blasted into the sidewalk with a
resounding crack, like the sound a thick book makes when someone slams it
closed.
Palming the folding knife I had clipped to my front pocket, I checked my
perimeter. Still clear. I took a step toward his two friends, who were rooted
in place. “Do you still want to help me?” I asked, my voice calm.
“No, man,” one of them answered, his hands raised palms out in supplication.
They started backing away. “It’s cool, man.”
I checked the papers the next day, and there was nothing about a killing in La
Goutte. So Mr. Helper must have had a hard head. The only downside of the
whole thing, from my perspective, was that prudence required I steer clear of
the area for a while.
There were other places, though, and I continued to visit them at night.
Still, the nocturnal prowling helped only so much. Situational awareness for
countering potential street crime is one thing. The fever pitch alertness
required to survive professionals who are patiently, dispassionately,
specifically, maneuvering to take your life is something else. If you’re

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addicted to the latter, and maybe I was, the former is no more than an
occasional dose of methadone in the face of a long-term heroin habit.
As my relationship with Delilah deepened, and as I gradually eased myself away
from the mindset you need to survive in the life, it was as though the part of
myself that was so adept in dangerous environments, the part that had kept me
alive in the jungle in Vietnam and then in countless urban jungles afterward,
didn’t like what was going on. That killer inside me, that iceman who could
always do what needed to be done, felt he was being marginalized,
disenfranchised. But what could I do? I didn’t know how to propitiate him, or
even if I could. All I knew was that he was deadly, as deadly as anyone I’ve
ever known, and capable of almost anything if he felt his survival required
it. I could feel him looking for a reason, a rationale, an excuse to come
surging back and shove me out of the way.
Someone who needed him, say. Someone in danger. Someone like Dox.
4
DOX CAME TO SUDDENLY. One moment he was out, gone, and then it was as though
someone had pressed his reboot button. He blinked and swallowed, and for a
moment he thought maybe it had been a nightmare. He had that kind of dream
from time to time, where the bullets would just plop out of his rifle, or his
knives would all get stuck in their sheaths, and when it happened he knew he
needed to train, because hard training was the only way to sleep well again.
But this time, as he came around, the images in his mind only grew sharper,
and he knew it had really happened. He’d gotten grabbed.
Christ, he was sore all over. Must have gotten bounced around some while he
was out. He tried to move and couldn’t, then realized why. His wrists and
ankles were secured, and his hands were stretched back above his head.
Actually, below his head was more like it, because as he recovered his senses
he saw that he was strapped to a declined board, with his feet about a foot
higher than his head. Well, that wasn’t a good sign.
Where the hell was he? A small room, maybe ten by ten. Wood walls. Fluorescent
lights. Nothing else to go on. He felt like he was rising and falling and
thought it was because he was woozy, but then he recognized the rhythm for
what it was. He was on a boat, and the movement he felt was of swells
underneath him.
Who had taken him? Whoever they were, they were good. They hadn’t wasted a
second once the blond guy engaged him. The flankers were ready and knew
exactly when to move in. Coordination like that showed not just skill, but the
kind of unit confidence and cohesion you get only after a lot of training
together. These weren’t freelancers. They’d worked together as a team before.
He wondered if that asshole Jim Hilger had something to do with it. He’d
sensed as much in the instant before he blacked out, and he’d learned to trust
his instincts on these things. First answer, best answer, that was usually his
experience. And now that he was awake and thinking, he saw there was some
logic behind that initial, unconscious conclusion. The coordination and skill,
for one thing, that felt like Hilger. After all, the man had been Special
Forces and then CIA before going off the reservation. And there was a motive
that could explain things, too. He and Rain had killed two very bad men in
Hilger’s network, one an arms dealer, the other a terrorist trying to buy
nuclear matériel, forcing Hilger to go to ground in the process, and it was
possible the man was the type to hold a grudge. Yeah, this was probably about
Rain, too, otherwise why didn’t they just kill him outright in front of the
Bintang? Why run all the extra risks of a snatch? Well, whatever, he’d find
out who did it and what they wanted soon enough.
He was furious at himself for being stupid enough to get nailed like this.
He’d waited too long, that was his first mistake. He hadn’t checked his
perimeter until the blond guy asked for his help, when he should have checked
it from within the store, or, failing that, then as soon as he’d stepped
outside. Dumb, just fucking dumb. If he’d seen those guys standing around in
their helmets, he would have gone to code red with an extra two seconds to
spare, before they’d even gotten a chance to move on him, and that would have

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made all the difference.
And he shouldn’t have gone for the knife immediately when he saw something was
off—that was reflex, to reach for a weapon, but there it was the wrong reflex.
He should have moved first, moved off the X, the killing spot, made them
react, chase after him, whatever. He would have had plenty of time to get to
the knife, and hold on to it, after that. Wasn’t that one of the things John
was always telling him? Move. Never give them a stationary target. Sometimes
he felt like Rain was lecturing him and bristled at it, but he had to admit
the man knew what he was talking about.
He wondered how they had traced him. Well, there were a lot of ways they might
have learned he was in Ubud, if they had enough resources. From there, they
probably deployed a watcher at every grocery store in town, knowing he would
have to show eventually. When he did, someone used a radio or a mobile phone
to alert the others, and they converged on the Bintang while he was inside.
When was the last time he’d been there? Four days earlier…no, five. So they’d
probably been in town close to a week. Had he seen anyone who set off his
radar? No, but there were always tourists passing through Ubud, and besides,
if these guys were in helmets and on motorcycles, they would have been damn
near impossible to spot.
At least one of them must have been driving a van. They’d injected him with
fentanyl or Rohypnol, something like that, that was the sting in his neck.
Shove him into the van after knocking him out, and they’re off before anyone
could intervene or even be sure what was happening. Change vehicles somewhere
close by, then head for the coast where they’d moored the boat. Which pretty
much brought things up to date.
He took a deep breath. All right, he’d fucked up. Hard to argue about it at
this point. But there was no use beating up on himself—he had a feeling
someone else would be taking care of that, and more, soon enough. Being
demoralized would only make it harder for him to keep his shit wired tight.
And he could keep it tight, he knew that. It wasn’t how far you fell, it was
how high you bounced—his dad had once told him that and he’d never forgotten
it. If he could survive sniper school, he could survive anything. He could
certainly survive this, whatever it was. He just had to remember who he was
and what he was made of. He had to hold that close and not let them separate
him from it.
He waited a long time, silently telling himself jokes he liked. That one he’d
told Rain about the bear was great. The guy didn’t like to laugh much, which
made it all the more satisfying to get to him. When Dox got out of this, he’d
be sure to tell Rain the one about kabunga. That would be apt, under the
circumstances.
He reminded himself from time to time that the waiting was part of it, part of
how they hoped to wear him down, with uncertainty about everything, who had
taken him, what this was about, where he was, what might happen next, when it
might happen. He’d been trained to resist interrogation, and knowing what to
expect was half the battle. He was pleasantly surprised, even bolstered, to
realize the training was really helping.
After what he estimated was three hours, the door to the room opened. The
blond dude, who he recognized from the parking lot, came in first, followed by
a scary-looking bald guy, and then a smaller specimen who looked way too young
to be mixed up in any of this. The bald guy and the young one he assumed had
been wearing the helmets in front of the Bintang. He heard another set of
footsteps, and sure enough, there he was—Hilger, just as Dox had suspected.
Okay, check off the who box. Why and where were still open.
The four of them stood around him, observing him silently. About fifteen
seconds passed.
Dox yawned. “If this is nothing pressing,” he said, “I’d like to ask you boys
to give me another twenty minutes or so to continue my nap. I’m sure you
didn’t mean to, but you’ve interrupted me.”
He chuckled, enjoying fucking with them while he could. He might not be able
to keep it up, but half of what they planned to do to him involved the

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infliction of dread, and damned if he would accommodate them by actually
feeling it.
Not unless he absolutely had to.
5
HILGER SLID a wooden chair over and sat facing Dox. He observed the big man
for a moment, as silently and dispassionately as a scientist studying a
microbe. He wanted Dox to understand that he viewed him not as a man, but
merely as a subject, the focus of a series of impending if/then sequences that
meant nothing to Hilger other than his desire for a certain result.
“I’m going to make this as easy for you as I can,” Hilger said, his voice low,
his tone reasonable. “There’s no need for you to suffer, or even to be
uncomfortable. The information I want isn’t going to compromise anyone. It’s
not going to put anyone in danger. It’s just going to enable me to contact
someone. That’s all.”
Dox smiled. “The ladies in my little black book wouldn’t be interested in you,
amigo, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. They seem to prefer their men
handsome and virile.”
Hilger sighed. He’d seen men in Dox’s position before, many of them. What they
all had in common was fear. What differed, what was interesting, was the way
they tried to cope with it.
Some men, faced with torture, would bluster. Some men begged. Both types were
really two sides of the same coin: their focus was the interrogator, and
because of this they tended to crack easily. As soon as they saw that their
bluster and begging were useless, that they couldn’t make a human connection
that would stop the pain and torment, their psyches folded and information
began to spill out.
There was another type that would go silent even before the interrogation
began, who wouldn’t utter a word even later, even while screaming. These men
were more self-contained, and therefore more difficult to crack. They didn’t
expect anything from their interrogator. They conceived of him not so much as
a human agent, but as more of a natural force, like foul weather or a disease.
Not as something that could be reasoned with or negotiated with or otherwise
influenced, but rather as something that could only be ridden out.
There was a third type, also very tough, and, in Hilger’s experience, the
rarest variety. These were the men who under duress defaulted to some core
personality setting from which they derived strength and comfort. Dox, it
seemed, was part of this last group. They didn’t disengage from the
interrogator the way the stoics did, but their behavior wasn’t calculated to
affect the interrogator like that of the beggars and blusterers, either. Its
function instead was self-referential. What Dox was doing, although Hilger
wasn’t sure if he was even conscious of it, was proving that if he could still
crack jokes, he was still himself. If he was still himself, he was still in
control, and things couldn’t be that bad.
Which was what made breaking men like Dox so hard. It wasn’t just a question
of pain. Pain was a surface thing. To break a man like Dox, you had to break
him down deep. Even with a jihadist, it was an unpleasant thing to have to do.
With an American, a former serviceman like Dox, it could be grim.
“I know from your file you’ve been through SERE,” Hilger said. “Did they
waterboard you?”
SERE was the military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape program. The
purpose of the question was twofold: first, to bring forth memories that would
trigger anxiety; second, to suggest that Hilger knew a great deal about Dox,
that he was in complete control.
“You tell me,” Dox said, and Hilger thought, Touché.
“They did,” Hilger continued. “You held out for almost five minutes. Your
instructors were impressed.”
Dox smiled. “They gave me a gold star.”
“It’s different when it’s not in the classroom. Worse.”
Dox glanced up at his bound feet. “You know, just because the latest
chickenshit legislation says it’s okay to do this sort of thing doesn’t mean

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you should be doing it. Shame on y’all.”
Pancho laughed. “Why not? The legislation even promises to indemnify us, if we
get in trouble.”
Dox looked at him. “Especially shame on you, son. You’re a disgrace to the
Marines.”
Pancho startled for a moment, then glanced at the Semper Fi tattoo on his
forearm, realizing where Dox had gotten his information.
Hilger could almost have smiled. Dox was playing the same “I know more than
I’m letting on” game Hilger was.
“And where’s that accent from?” Dox said. “You from Mexico?”
Pancho’s eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with that?”
Dox turned his head and spat. “Well, it explains a few things.”
Pancho started to move forward. Demeere stepped in front of him and said,
“Easy, easy.”
“Go ahead,” Dox said. “You might be able to take me, tied up as I am.” Then he
added something in Spanish that made the blood drain from Pancho’s face and
scalp. Pancho tried to move around Demeere, but the big man kept him back.
Hilger was impressed. Dox was using what he could to control what he could,
and steadying himself in the process. Before he could manipulate the
environment any further, Hilger said, “You’re right, it’s strange there was
such a fuss over these…what did the president call them? ‘Alternative
interrogation techniques,’ that’s right. Because mostly they’re ineffective,
it’s true. You haul in a fishing trawl’s worth of field-level jihadists? You
don’t know who they are, much less what they know? Hook up the alligator clips
and crank the generator and they spew so much bullshit that even if there’s
some real intel mixed in with it, you’ll never know, much less be able to make
use of it.”
He paused as though in thought. “But when you know who you’ve captured? And
you know he’s got the information you’re after? And you can immediately verify
the quality of that information as soon as you extract it? Well, when you’ve
got all that, alligator clips and a generator are pretty much a man’s best
friend.”
“Listen to what you just said,” Dox said. “Really, listen. Alligator clips and
a generator are a man’s best friend? You’ve been out in the field too long,
amigo. All of you have. You’ve got to get yourself some help. You need it.”
Hilger was getting irritated despite himself. “What I need,” he said, “is
information. Tell me how I contact Rain.”
Dox chuckled. “Yeah, I thought you might be pissed about Hong Kong. How’s the
back, by the way? That was a heavy chair.”
Hilger cautioned himself not to take the bait. He had to be smarter than that.
If he reacted like Pancho, they’d all just wind up beating the shit out of the
subject and get nothing of any value.
“The back is fine,” Hilger said. “Thanks for asking.”
“What do you want with Rain? You mad at him for killing that guy Al-Jib? Boy
wanted to make an atomic bomb for Al-Qaeda. And you were going to give him the
matériel. I’ll tell you the truth, it’s hard for me not to be sick just
talking to you from this close.”
“What you don’t know about Al-Jib,” Hilger said, “would fill a book. And when
AQ does get a bomb or a radiological device, you and your friend can thank
yourselves for it. You fucked up an operation that would have stopped it.”
“That what you tell yourself when the Ambien’s not working and you’re lying
awake at night?”
It was strange. Initially, seeing Dox helpless had eclipsed Hilger’s anger at
the man’s previous interference, at the long recovery Hilger had endured after
getting hit with that chair. But now that brief and improbable moment of
sympathy was receding so quickly, it almost seemed not to have happened at
all.
Hilger was beginning to accept that this wasn’t going to be an easy one. True,
the information he wanted from Dox would entail only a minor betrayal, but the
man’s honor and self-image required him to part with nothing without a fight.

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And, although his repeated requests now were likely to prove as futile as
Dox’s resistance later, Hilger had his own reasons for trying one more time.
It would make the memories of what happened next easier to deal with.
“I’d prefer a phone number,” he said, his tone still reasonable. “Or an e-mail
address. Or the URL for a secure electronic bulletin board. Why don’t you give
me one of those instead?”
“I don’t know how to contact him,” Dox said. “He contacts me.”
“How?”
“He calls me. Always from a different number. But I haven’t heard from him in
months.”
“Not true, Dox. You saw him three months ago. In Barcelona.”
Dox blinked, then instantly recovered. “I was in Barcelona to take in the
Gaudí architecture and meet some nice Spanish ladies. You’re fishing and you
know it.”
Hilger had been fishing—he knew from customs records Dox had spent four days
in Barcelona, and had no idea whether he’d seen Rain there. But the gambit had
paid off with that single, involuntary blink.
A long moment went by. Hilger said, “Last chance. Do you have something you
want to say?”
Dox glanced at his feet again, then turned his head to Hilger and smiled. “It
looks bleak for our hero, I’ll say that.”
Pancho smiled and picked up a bath towel. He started to move in.
“No,” Hilger said. “You’re running too hot, and you know it.” He nodded to
Demeere. “Do it.”
Demeere took the towel from Pancho. Pancho looked at Dox and said, “You’re
lucky, pendejo. This time.”
Dox smiled and said something in Spanish again. Pancho’s nostrils twitched and
he strained forward like a Doberman on a leash.
“Outside,” Hilger said.
Pancho shook his head. “No, I’m okay. If you’re not going to let me do it, at
least let me watch. I want to hear him blubbering with his voice as high as a
little girl’s.”
“Out,” Hilger said again.
Pancho shot one more glance at Dox, then nodded and started to head for the
door. Dox said, “I’m going to miss you, Uncle Fester. Y’all come back and
visit, you hear?”
Then Demeere was lifting Dox’s head, wrapping the towel around it with
clinical ease. Dox tried to twist away, but the reflex was useless. Guthrie
stood astride him on the table and turned on the hose. He looked at Hilger.
Hilger nodded.
Guthrie aimed the hose onto Dox’s chest. The cold water hit the towel and
immediately soaked through it. Dox twisted his head left and right, but
Guthrie kept the water flowing onto the towel. A minute passed, during which
Hilger knew Dox was holding his breath. Then suddenly the big man was choking
and coughing, his body bucking against the table and the restraints around his
wrists and ankles. Guthrie kept the water flowing for a few more seconds, then
diverted it to the side.
The advantage of the towel was that it modulated the amount of water the
subject could actually swallow, while still causing suffocation and thus the
sensation of drowning. The sensation was what you wanted because that was
enough to produce the panic response. Actual drowning was counterproductive
because when you’re unconscious, you’re no longer panicking, and being revived
from drowning can sometimes produce euphoria—not exactly the goal of a hostile
interrogation. Actual drowning was also risky: if the subject died, you sure
as hell couldn’t interrogate him. Besides, performing mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation to save Abdul the terrorist suspect you were torturing a minute
earlier wasn’t considered good form in the community.
“Anything you want to tell me?” Hilger said, no more loudly than was necessary
to get Dox’s attention. “Or do you want to do it again?”
The coughing subsided, but Dox didn’t answer. Hilger nodded to Guthrie, who

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turned the hose onto Dox’s face again.
They repeated the process twice more, then again. On the fifth time, when
Guthrie diverted the hose, they saw vomit flowing from under the towel. Hilger
judged this the right moment. If they went on much longer, panic would be
replaced by exhaustion, and Hilger would have to change to more brutal
tactics, which he preferred not to do—more, he recognized, for his own sake
than for Dox’s.
Hilger nodded to Demeere, who stepped in and peeled the towel away. Guthrie
hosed the mess off Dox’s face. Dox jerked back and forth, blindly trying to
avoid the spray. Guthrie turned aside the hose. Dox wheezed and gagged, then
threw up again with a choking, strangled scream.
“Nothing funny to say?” Hilger asked, and was immediately ashamed of himself.
But Dox was past humor now. His chest heaved in the cadences of barely
controlled panic. His teeth were chattering and his hands shook in their
manacles. His breath whistled in and out in whimpers, and Hilger realized the
man was crying.
Hilger pushed aside his shame and disgust. He leaned forward and said, “I
don’t want to know where he is, just how to contact him.”
Dox shook his head.
Hilger said, “You’ve already held out longer than Khaled Sheikh fucking
Mohammed, you know that? And he held out as long as anyone I’ve ever seen. But
no one can hold out against this forever. No one. Why don’t you tell me what I
need to know. Otherwise we’re going to do it again. And again.”
Hilger waited a long moment, then nodded to Demeere. The Belgian stepped
forward with the towel. He lifted Dox’s head, but Dox shook free.
“All right!” Dox shouted, his voice hoarse. “All right.” He let out a stream
of foul words that Hilger had never heard strung together quite so
inventively, not even during his time with the linguistically creative men of
Third Special Forces in the first Gulf War.
They waited. When the invective had subsided, Dox said, “It’s a secure
bulletin board.” He told them the URL, and Demeere wrote it down.
“How often does he check it?” Hilger asked.
“I don’t know. We’re not in touch that often. I’d guess once a day, if that.”
“Good. That means we’ve got twenty-four hours.”
“For what?”
“For Rain to get back to us. If I haven’t heard from him by then, I’ll assume
what you’ve given me is inaccurate. In which case, I’ll have to ask you again.
And probably not as nicely as I did just now.”
Dox turned his head and spat. “Yeah? What are you going to do, behead me and
sell the videotape to Al Jazeera?”
Hilger looked at him. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.”
“Really? Why don’t you tell me the difference? Because I can’t see it.”
Hilger waited a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was cold.
“The ends,” he said. He was still looking at Dox, but it was Rain he was
thinking of. “It’s all about the ends.”
6
ALTHOUGH THE martial arts world is vastly bigger today than it was when I got
started in judo in the seventies, I still had to be careful. My face was known
not only at the Kodokan in Tokyo, but also at Carlinhos Gracie’s jiu-jitsu
academy, where I’d trained obsessively for the year I’d lived in Rio. No one
at either club knew my name, but if someone from either happened to be
training in Paris, I didn’t want to deal with questions about what I was doing
here or where I was living.
There’s a cost/benefit equation in all decisions, though, and my need to train
was strong enough to outweigh the risks involved. It wasn’t just a question of
keeping my skills sharp, although that was part of it. Like my nocturnal
excursions, training soothed an anxious part of me. So I worked out five
afternoons a week at a place called the RD Sporting Club, on the boulevard
Saint-Denis near the Saint-Martin canal. The club had a variety of
equipment—mats, gloves, bags—and plenty of tough partners to train with. And I

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was glad for the opportunity to use my French, too.
Every day, usually after a workout, I would stop by an Internet café, always a
different one, to check the bulletin board I used with Dox. We weren’t in
touch that often, but I liked the routine. I’d done something similar for a
long time with Midori before our rupture, at which point I’d shut that board
down. I realized afterward that I missed the possibility of a message, that I
had grown used to living with the pleasure of a small quotidian hope.
I almost hated to admit it, because Dox’s boisterousness, wise-cracking, and
willingness to wing it on tradecraft drove me crazy, but he was now as close a
friend as I’d ever had. I hadn’t much cared for him when we’d first met, in
Afghanistan. He was damn capable in the field, but his constant antics and
outsized personality grated on me. Then, a few years ago, some elements in the
CIA had tried to draw on the Afghan connection in sending Dox after me in Rio.
Instead, the two of us wound up working together. The partnership was of
necessity at first, and I distrusted him. But at Kwai Chung harbor in Hong
Kong, he’d walked away from a bag with five million dollars in it to save my
life. With that one remarkable act, he’d blasted through my defenses and
altered my whole worldview. I still struggled with the aftermath. Would I have
done the same for him? Today I wouldn’t hesitate, but at the time…no, I had to
admit, at the time I wouldn’t have. I didn’t trust anyone back then, didn’t
think anyone was worthy of trust. I believed in preemptive betrayal. There was
a line I heard in a movie once: “Hell, I’ll kill a man in a fair fight…or if I
think he’s gonna start a fair fight.” That was me. There was nothing wrong
with betrayal, just with letting the other guy beat you to it. But Dox had
changed my view. The only person I could think of who had affected me as
profoundly was Delilah.
One day, on one of these forays to an Internet café, I saw there was a message
waiting from the big sniper. I smiled and opened it, expecting nothing more
than a report on the weather in Bali and maybe a hint of some fresh sexual
conquest. The usual, from Dox.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. The message said, We got to your friend near
his villa on Bali. He’s with us, and for now he’s okay. But if we haven’t
heard from you within twenty-four hours from posting this message, we can’t
guarantee his continued comfort.
I felt the blood draining from my face, an adrenaline dump in my gut. There
was no way it was a joke. Dox liked to give me a hard time, but this would be
crossing a line. I looked up from the terminal and glanced around,
instinctively, uselessly, then looked back at the message. There was a phone
number—Dox’s mobile. That was all.
The message had been left at 2:00 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time. That was 3:00 A.M.
in Paris. So…shit, over twelve hours ago. Less than twelve to go.
I purged and closed the browser, then walked outside. Cars shot along the
boulevard de Magenta, dead leaves skittering in their backwash. Pedestrians
dodged me, intent on their destinations, heads down against the chill winter
breeze, shoulders hunched. A multitude of urgent questions and frightened
thoughts were crowding me, trying to get inside, and for a few minutes I
concentrated only on my breathing, letting the cold air work to clear my mind.
What do you know, I thought. Not what you suspect; what you know. Start with
that.
What it boiled down to wasn’t very much. Someone had gotten to Dox. Whoever it
was, they were good. They’d forced him to give up the bulletin board, which
meant they were ruthless. Now they wanted something from me.
What else? The board was compromised. If they were good enough to take out
Dox, they’d be good enough to hack the site and determine the location of the
terminal from which I’d just accessed it. In fact, I had to assume they’d just
gotten a ping confirming for them that I was currently in Paris.
Shit, I thought. Shit.
If I called from Paris, it would give them a second means of determining my
current position. But if they’d already hacked the bulletin board, what they’d
get from a phone call would be redundant.

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I thought about using the remaining time to go somewhere else, another city in
France, maybe, or a quick train trip to Brussels, or Frankfurt. But I
immediately rejected the notion. If they logged the time and location of the
bulletin board access and then the call came hours later from elsewhere, it
would look like I was trying to obscure my current location, which would mean
Paris was in some way significant to me. Better to act as though my presence
here was as fleeting as it was irrelevant. Which meant making the call right
now, right here.
I turned on the prepaid GSM phone I was carrying. I had bought it in New York
months earlier, and hadn’t yet used it in Paris, or even in Barcelona. If they
tracked its provenance it would create another distracting datapoint about
where I might be found.
I slipped a Bluetooth earpiece in place, input Dox’s number, and waited. It
rang once, twice, three times. This was theater, I knew. The people who had
set this up would have the phone close at hand. The wait was intended to
suggest nonchalance, power, control.
On the fourth ring, someone picked up. A voice I didn’t recognize said simply,
“Yes.”
“I got your message,” I said.
“Wait a moment,” the voice said. There was a slight, indeterminate European
accent.
I looked at my watch, tracking the second hand’s gradual sweep. Five seconds,
ten. The wait was supposed to put me on edge. Having the underling answer was
intended to let me know I was dealing with a group, an organization, and to
make me feel alone and powerless by comparison.
That’s all right, I thought. I’ve gone up against groups before. Maybe I’ll
get to show you how it’s done.
But intelligence first. Action after.
A full minute went by. Then a voice I did recognize said, “Hello, John.”
I waited a moment, then said, “Hello, Hilger.”
If he was surprised I knew it was him, he didn’t reveal it. Not that he had
too much cause for astonishment, after the way we’d locked horns in the past.
The first time, Dox and I had killed a half-French, half-Algerian arms dealer
named Belghazi whom Hilger was working with; then, just a few months later,
Delilah, Dox, and I had taken out another bad guy Hilger had recruited, a
terrorist named Al-Jib, along with a bad-apple Israeli access agent called
Manny. That was the op in which Delilah’s colleague, Gil, had died. Hilger had
shot him.
I realized that with someone as dangerous and connected as Hilger, I never
should have treated any of it as concluded. My understanding was that he’d
left the government and opened up his own shop, a kind of privatized
intelligence operation, more shadowy, better connected, and substantially less
accountable than private security firms like Blackwater and Triple Canopy. I
thought Hong Kong had blown his operation out of the water, but apparently
Hilger had been wearing a life vest.
A long moment went by. The silence was intended to get me to blurt something
out, to betray eagerness. More tactics, I thought. He’s still shaping the
battlefield.
I looked at my watch again. It was a stainless steel Jaeger-LeCoultre Reverso
Grande Taille with a brown leather band. I might have worn a Traser, but I
tend to avoid anything that could be recognized as tactical. People who know,
know. Besides, I just have a weakness for a fine watch like the Grande Taille.
I thought about all the care that went into its design and its manufacture,
imagined the craftsmen working on it, wearing spectacles, using magnifying
glasses and precision tools to get the complications just right…
“I have a job I want you to do,” Hilger said, finally. “Three of them, in
fact. Do the jobs, and Dox lives. Don’t do them, and he dies.”
“Put him on the phone,” I said, keeping my voice casual.
I wondered if he would refuse. I would have judged that stupid—I wasn’t going
to do a damn thing without what’s known in the kidnap trade as “proof of

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life”—but on the other hand, in a negotiation, you don’t give anything away
for free. Hilger might want to position a few words with Dox as a concession.
He’d been staging this thing carefully so far; maybe he’d want to stage it a
bit more.
But he didn’t. He just said, “Wait.”
Thirty seconds later, I heard Dox’s baritone twang. “Howdy, partner.”
I was about to admonish him not to call me that because I didn’t want Hilger
to think we were close. But he went on: “Just so you know, these four boys
have got us on the speakerphone.”
Speakerphone. I should have anticipated that, and it was smart of Dox to tell
me. It was also smart to slip in the mention of their numbers. Hilger might
not have minded that; he probably hoped to intimidate me with the odds.
There was a down note in Dox’s tone that was entirely unlike the rampantly
cocksure persona I had come to tolerate, and eventually to like. A flood of
emotions wanted to engulf me again: relief that he was alive, worry about what
might happen next, anger that he’d allowed himself to be taken. I struggled to
push it all aside, then felt that deep, icy part of me breaking through to the
surface and taking the controls. And the feeling that came with it was nothing
but relief. Finally, a reason for my fear. A reason not to struggle against
the creature inside me.
“You all right?” I asked.
“I’m alive. I reckon that’s what this conversation is intended to establish.”
“You know where you are?”
“On a boat. Wish I could tell you more.”
Then he was gone, and Hilger was back on the line. “We’ll use the bulletin
board,” he said.
From the suddenness with which he’d grabbed the phone, I gathered he was
concerned Dox might tell me something more, something useful. But what?
“No,” I told him. “What you’ve got to tell me, you can tell me to my face.”
“No. We do it my way, or…”
“Or you can fuck off.” And with that, I pressed the “End call” button.
Or rather, the iceman did. The iceman knew that if I didn’t establish some
measure of control early on, I’d always be reacting, always trying to recover,
every step of the way, until finally, no matter how desperate my efforts, or
feverish my hope, Dox would be dead, and probably I along with him.
I looked at the Grande Taille again, watching the second hand’s smooth sweep.
I could feel my heart beating steadily, my pulse rate just a little above
normal. I was inside myself, suspended somewhere only I could recognize,
disconnected, severed from events.
I watched the second hand’s slow sweep. One circuit. Two. Another. The street
was gone. My focus was no larger than the movement on the watch face.
The second hand was beginning its fifth rotation when the phone buzzed. I saw
Dox’s number on the screen and pressed “Answer.”
Hilger said, “You’re lucky your number got stored in this phone’s caller ID
just now. Otherwise your friend would already be dead. Now listen, there’s
something I want you to hear.”
In the background, Dox started screaming. I held the phone far from my ear and
looked at the watch again.
Whatever they were doing, they did it for ten seconds. Then the screaming
stopped. Hilger said, “I hope you won’t do that to him again.”
“Where do you want to meet?” I said, my voice as flat as a hockey rink and
twice as cold.
“We’re not going to meet. I told you, the bulletin board. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“Then we have nothing to negotiate.”
There was a pause. He said, “You want to hear him scream again?”
“You can make him scream all you want. You want me to work for you, you’ll
give me the assignment in person. I want to look in your eyes when you tell
me. I’ll know from that how much I can trust you to let him go when this is
done.”
There was another pause, longer this time. I could feel him considering,

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weighing the odds. He was thinking, I’d ask for the same thing. And I’d be
looking for a way to take a run at me, sure. But that’s a dead end…hit me
while my men have Dox, and Dox dies, too. Besides, if I choose the time and
place, I can control the situation.
Of course, there was another possibility: Hilger’s reticence was feigned. He
didn’t want me to kill anyone; he had grabbed Dox simply to flush me into the
open so he could kill me. In which case, by insisting on a meeting, I was
giving him exactly what he wanted.
But I would have to take the chance. Dox had saved my life twice. Playing it
safe now would be no way to return the favor. Because if I didn’t keep Hilger
moving, if I couldn’t get him to depart from his game plan, I would always be
one step behind on this thing, all the way to its bitter end.
“Hong Kong,” he said.
Hong Kong was his territory. He could control it too well. But I wanted an
Asian background. It would make it easier for me to blend, and harder for him.
I said, “Tokyo.”
“No good,” he said, knowing he would be at as least as much of a disadvantage
in Tokyo as I would be in Hong Kong. “Bangkok.”
We were getting closer. But not long ago he’d fielded a team in Bangkok on
short notice, a team that had very nearly gotten to Dox and me after we’d
spoiled one of his ops. I knew he had reach there. It wouldn’t do.
I needed a place that was familiar to me, but where he was unlikely to have
much local capability. Something inside me spoke up, and before I could think
more about it, I said, “Saigon.”
There was a pause. He said, “When?”
“The night after tomorrow.”
“I can’t make it that fast. For Vietnam, I’ll need a visa.”
I know, I thought. And that’ll give me one more datapoint I can use to track
you. “One of the services can get you one in a day,” I said.
“What about you?”
I’d be traveling under a Japanese passport, which doesn’t require a visa. But
Hilger didn’t need to know that. Better to let him think I was going to arrive
the day of our meeting. That way, not only would I have time to reconnoiter,
but he wouldn’t know I’d had time.
“I can get one in a day,” I said. “Keep Dox’s phone with you, and I’ll keep
this one. The bulletin board will be backup. We’ll meet somewhere public,
somewhere we can trust each other not to misbehave.”
“I trust you. Because if there’s a problem, the screaming you just heard is
going to sound like music by comparison.”
I clenched my jaw and exhaled. “Careful how you use that leverage, Hilger.
Right now, it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”
“Maybe. But you’re what’s keeping Dox alive. If you step out of line, you’ll
kill him.”
“Put him on again.”
“After the first job. Assuming there aren’t any problems.” I started to
protest, but he had already clicked off.
I walked in the direction of the place de la République, where I knew there
was a travel agency. My survival paranoia felt like a brewing riot, and I
didn’t want to be on the Internet searching for and purchasing flights to
Saigon so soon after being tagged in Paris. Better to have the transaction
done on a closed system.
From what I knew of Hilger and the number of government officials he had in
his pocket, I guessed he might have access to customs information. If he knew
what flight I was coming in on, it would be too easy for him to have a team
waiting at the airport in Saigon. In fact, the safer alternative would be to
fly to Hanoi and arrive in Saigon by some land connection. But there was no
time for that. So the best I could do was to avoid leaving directly from
Paris. That would at least obscure my arrival time.
There was a flight from Frankfurt at 7:20 that evening, with a change in
Bangkok that would put me into Saigon at 3:25 the following afternoon, and of

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course my pick of flights on other airlines from Paris to Frankfurt. The woman
who helped me was a little confused about why I wouldn’t want to just fly
nonstop from Paris on Air France. Miles, I told her. I wanted to be able to
upgrade to first. But damn, I didn’t have my frequent flyer number with me…. I
would take care of it later, directly with the airline. I booked the flight
for Taro Yamada, the name on the passport I would be using and the Japanese
equivalent of John Smith. Yamada was currently my most solid alter ego, fully
nurtured into a mature identity, including driver’s license, credit cards,
bank accounts, and the other indicia of unremarkable citizenship.
I hadn’t been to Saigon in over three decades, and I knew there would be a lot
to learn, and not much time to learn it. Well, I could pick up a guidebook at
the airport and read it on the plane. With that, plus the time I’d already
spent there, plus the extra day I’d have on Hilger, I’d have an advantage.
I was actually in my apartment packing a bag—a few changes of clothes, a
little less than ten thousand dollars in cash—when I realized I was supposed
to meet Delilah for a drink in Montparnasse. Shit. I thought for a moment.
Call her on her mobile? And tell her what?
I checked my watch. With just a carry-on, I could meet her and still make my
plane. I went out to boulevard Henri IV and caught a cab.
Now that the logistics were taken care of, I was gripped by a creeping unease,
entirely separate from the fear I felt for Dox. Maybe Vietnam was a bad idea.
Saigon offered security advantages, yes, but for me it would also be a land of
unburied memories, of a world that could never be forgotten, only, perhaps,
left behind. I wondered why the iceman would want to go back there, what he
was trying to accomplish in doing so.
I would have to let it go for now, and trust him as I always had before. What
mattered is that he was here, invoked by crisis. The trick would be to get him
to leave when the crisis was done.
7
DELILAH SAT AT a corner table in the brasserie of La Closerie des Lilas in
Montparnasse. She liked that John wasn’t there yet. For a long time she had
always been able to count on him to come early. She would ask him about it,
and he would tell her he had some extra time, that he just wanted to read the
paper or people-watch. She knew better, and knew he knew, too, but what was
the point of saying anything? He arrived early because it was an old habit, a
means of avoiding an ambush. She engaged in similar tradecraft herself, of
course, but Rain was extreme.
Even when he was on time, she would sense that he’d been nearby, watching
their meeting place beforehand, wanting to see her arrive first. Once she’d
actually gotten in position two hours early and sure enough, she had barely
arrived in time to watch him move through the area, checking the hot spots.
The last one he checked was hers, and rightly so, because she had chosen a
less obvious place, farther down the street, not a particularly good view.
She’d given up after that, knowing that if he knew she was going to show up
two hours early, he would just come an hour earlier still.
The nice thing was, he’d been getting better, to the point where every now and
then he seemed comfortable arriving on time. He wasn’t going to sit with his
back to a door, not soon, maybe not ever. And she knew never to come up behind
him, or approach him from his blind side, not that approaching his blind side
was easy because he tended not to keep his head trained in one direction for
very long. She’d also learned not to stand close if she had to wake him. She’d
made that mistake once, and Rain had sprung on her like a panther. He hadn’t
hurt her—he’d managed to pull back in time—and although he hadn’t said
anything beyond an embarrassed apology, she could tell he was horrified at
what he’d very nearly done. She was careful after that, as much for his sake
as for hers.
Still, he was changing. She noticed it in little things. He always had a great
way of listening, with his eyes, even his whole body, a quality that made him
rare among males. It was still there, but now he was more inclined to talk,
too, and when he did, he gestured more with his hands. She hadn’t seen that

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before Paris, and knew it was part of the chameleon in him, or what a
colleague of hers had once referred to as the shape-shifter, because
chameleons change only color, while Rain’s ability to blend with his
environment ran much deeper than that. She liked the taste he was developing
in French music—Jean-Louis Murat, Patricia Kaas—and the way it was symptomatic
of a more general openness to an unfamiliar culture. She wondered to what
extent his ability to embrace the new, to make it part of himself and himself
part of it, was attributable to his Japaneseness, and to what extent it was
attributable simply to his own nature. She wanted to ask, but was afraid to,
lest he become self-conscious, which might impede the very changes that
pleased her so much.
It wasn’t easy for him, she could tell. While he was effecting changes, the
changes were affecting him. What did Nietzsche say? “When you look into an
abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” But the phenomenon expressed itself in
more positive ways, too.
She wondered sometimes what had happened with Midori and Rain’s son, who as
far as she knew were still living in New York. Rain had never told her exactly
how the situation had been resolved, only that they were no longer in danger
and that he could never see them again. Delilah was secretly pleased on both
counts and recognized, from the time he told her, that the subject would be
taboo. What had happened, though? Whatever it was, he seemed reconciled to it.
Perhaps he was satisfied, consciously or unconsciously, that he had done the
right thing in going to see them and in protecting them afterward, and
simultaneously relieved that, for reasons beyond his control, he didn’t have
to have them in his life. She could respect him for the first while being glad
at the second.
She looked up and there he was, and the instant she saw him she knew something
was seriously wrong. He was dressed nicely as always, in this case a blue
cashmere blazer and a striped shirt she had bought for him at Charvet. And his
features were the same, of course, Asian with a hint of something else, a nice
head of dark hair with just a little gray over the ears. The difference she
had immediately spotted was in his eyes. They were businesslike, almost blank,
which in Rain’s case made him look dangerous for anyone attuned to such
things. And his body, she realized. He kept in shape and was always light on
his feet, but now he looked almost too ready, with his shoulders rolling
slightly and his head swiveling, eyes logging details as he moved. It was all
back, as if the months in Paris had been suddenly emptied out of him, leaving
the killer ascendant.
He sat down and glanced at her, then scanned the café.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Hilger’s got Dox.”
“What do you mean, ‘got’?” she asked, feeling the blood drain from her face,
already suspecting the worst.
“Rendered him. Kidnapped him. They’re holding him on a boat somewhere. I got a
message from them on the bulletin board I use with Dox. I don’t know what they
did to make him give it up and I’m trying not to imagine. I…”
He stopped for a moment as though confused. “I have to go. But I thought I
should tell you.”
“Of course you should tell me. What were you going to do, just disappear
without saying a word?” Even as she said it, she knew that was precisely what
he had almost done. In fact, he had done it before. It was his realization
that he had to account for himself, that he couldn’t just drop everything,
that had produced his confused expression.
He didn’t say anything, and she realized he was struggling just to stay there.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To meet Hilger.”
“Are you crazy? He might have…”
“Yes, I’ve already thought about all that. I’m taking steps to mitigate.”
“He’s got you reacting. You need to slow it down.”
“I know what I’m doing.”

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“John, don’t…”
“Don’t tell me what to do. You run risks all the time, and you’ve never
listened to me when I’ve asked you to get out.”
“It’s different. My country…”
“I don’t want to hear about your country. This is my friend.”
He stood up. Suddenly she was afraid, and she didn’t even know of what. She
said, “At least tell me where you’re going.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
She stood, too. “Let me help.”
He shook his head again. “You’ve helped me too many times on too many things.
This isn’t your problem.”
“I’m not offering you charity, damn it. I care about Dox, too. And my
organization has a score to settle with Hilger, don’t you realize? For killing
Gil. I could call Boaz. He would help.”
Boaz was a colleague, and an ally, too, a competent, dangerous field operative
and bomb specialist with a deceptively easy laugh. Along with Gil, Boaz had
brought Rain into the Manila op that initially had gone so wrong her
organization tried to kill Rain for it.
“I don’t trust Boaz,” he said.
“I trust him.”
“I don’t want him involved, or anyone else on his end. They wouldn’t care
about saving Dox. Only killing Hilger.”
“You’re wrong,” she said, but without conviction.
She wanted to argue with him, but knew if she did he would just play
tit-for-tat again. He was being stupid, and childish, and she didn’t know how
to get through to him.
She tried to think of something to say, some way of reasoning with him. But
before she could, he turned and walked away. She watched, stunned. It was as
though he’d already forgotten her.
8
I HAD HOPED to sleep on the thirteen-hour flight from Frankfurt, but for a
long time I couldn’t. My mind was too preoccupied with Dox, with where I was
going, with what I was walking into. And with Delilah. Maybe I’d been
too…abrupt with her. She’d only been trying to help. I should have been
grateful, should have found a way to show her I was grateful. But her
intentions, good as they were, wouldn’t overrule her organization’s
imperatives. When Gil had gotten killed in Hong Kong, he’d been hunting me.
The same kind of thing could easily happen here. And although the Mossad’s
reasons for wanting me dead—a job that had gone sideways in Manila before I
finished it in Hong Kong—no longer applied, I wasn’t enthusiastic about
reappearing on the organization’s radar screen, either.
Yeah, but Delilah herself could help. Discreetly. She’s helped before. Dox is
her friend, too, like she said.
Bullshit. She’s compromised. Look how devoted she is to her organization. How
many times have you tried to convince her to leave?
But I trust her. If I thought she would say anything about the two of us, to
be safe I’d have to leave Paris. Leave her.
That’s different. She has no obligation to them about you. Hilger killed one
of their own. Anything you tell her about Hilger, she’ll feed to them.
I put my fists to my temples and squeezed my eyes shut. Christ, it was like
two different people, struggling inside my head. Trust and suspicion. Hope and
fear. The rationalist and the iceman.
Eventually I slept. When I woke, we were landing in Saigon, Ho Chi Minh City
only in name. I don’t think it was until I got off the plane that I really
understood where I was, what I had returned to. I walked across the tarmac to
a waiting bus, and the thing that brought it all home was the wet heat, the
heat and that fecund earth smell, mud and competing tropical growth and rot.
Then the doors closed and for a moment it was gone. But of course it was all
still there. It always had been.
Outside the airport was tumult. Crowds and honking taxis and the wet heat

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again. The weirdly familiar cadences of the language itself, tonal like
Chinese but softer, lower-pitched. I smelled diesel and spices and that jungle
smell again, the mud that had caught in my mind the way it had once stuck in
my boots.
I doubted Hilger could have put anyone in position quickly enough to intercept
me here. Even if he’d wanted to, the way I’d traveled, he couldn’t have known
quite when I was arriving. And even if he’d guessed right, the airport, with
all its cameras and other security, would be a poor place for a hit. Still, I
haven’t survived this long by taking anything for granted, and the first thing
I wanted to do was make sure I was clean.
I shouldered my overnight bag and asked a taxi driver who seemed to speak
decent English to take me downtown. I stayed with a Japanese persona and used
a Japanese accent. With Hilger I’d be American. At all other times I wanted to
be Japanese. The two personas have always been subtly distinct for me, and
slipping from one to another would make me harder to describe, and therefore
to track.
I watched behind us as we left the airport. Several cabs followed us into the
thick traffic. I waited three minutes, then said, “Wait, go back, go back!
Forgot sunglasses!”
The driver looked at me, unsure. “Sunglasses!” I said again, gesturing to my
eyes. “Airport, please.”
He nodded, then turned into the oncoming traffic with a U-turn that for an
older passenger might have meant a coronary. I watched behind us as we
returned to the airport. No one, not even one of the motorcyclists in their
hundreds, replicated the U-turn.
I paid the driver five dollars—still the street’s preferred currency, and
about what the trip downtown would have cost had we completed it—went back
into the terminal, and waited inside, watching. No one tried to follow me in,
and I saw no one setting up outside. I found another cab and had it take me to
the Rex Hotel.
In the thick traffic, the five-mile trip took almost an hour. I sat in the
backseat, jostled by the occasional pothole, surrounded by the buzzing and
honking of armadas of motorcycles, with nothing to do but watch and think.
I hadn’t ever intended to come back here. It’s not that I hated these people,
although there are plenty of soldiers who still do—hell, there are American
World War II vets who still hate the Japanese. I hated them at the time, yes.
I wanted to hate them, to prove that despite my Asian face I was different, I
was American, more American even than the soldiers who suffered and fought
alongside me.
And there were plenty of opportunities to hate, plenty of reasons. The
Vietnamese were masters of psychological torture. They could turn anything,
any harmless, neutral thing in your environment, into something deadly, until
the world itself started to seem like your enemy. They booby-trapped pens,
C-ration cans, the bodies of dead soldiers. They hid trip wires behind
branches and mines under the dirt. They would lay spikes alongside a road and
then ambush you so when you dove for cover you’d be impaled.
Imagine losing a buddy that way, one of the men whose smile could always cheer
you up, who’d saved your life, who had your back no matter what. Imagine how
you would hate. But then imagine this. Before you’ve even had a chance to
process what’s happened, while your uniform is still soaked with your friend’s
hot blood, two guys you’ve never seen before and never will again have zipped
him into a bag and tossed him rudely onto a medevac chopper, and an instant
later he’s gone, so gone you wonder where all that blood could have come from.
There’s no funeral, no burial, just a grief so confusing and bitter you start
to choke on it, and the only thing that saves you from being paralyzed by that
grief, being killed by it, is a rage so white-hot the sane can barely begin to
imagine it.
The rage has a purpose, you see: it offers an outlet. But it carries a heavy
price. You do things you couldn’t have imagined doing, couldn’t have imagined
anyone doing, things you can’t talk about afterward, not even with the men who

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acted with you. In that state, the things that make you human, your empathy,
even your fear, they’re gone. You feel like you’ve died already, and you’re
right in a way, part of you has died and will never come back. At that point,
being killed is almost a mercy. Because if you survive it, if you survive your
own death, the path back to life is almost impossible. After the war, there
were men, hollowed-out men whose means of negotiating the world had been
reduced to alternating silence and rage, who would try with earnest futility
to explain themselves that way. “I died there,” they would say.
I thought that, too, for a long time after. But now, watching from the back of
a cab images of that stark country that had swallowed up my innocence, I
thought, No, I didn’t die here. Vietnam is where I was born.
And I’d never left. Not really. I’d been back to the States, then all around
the world, then finally settled, at least for a time, in Japan. But the person
who was born here had never grown up, never fundamentally changed. His body
had wandered, but his mind had remained in the place that had formed it.
Once, when I told Midori I wanted out of the business, she had asked me how
hard I was trying. I felt my jaw clench at the memory. What horror had she
ever endured? How could she, how could anyone who wasn’t there, imagine the
way war changes you?
Losing people, and not being able to properly grieve them, shrinks your world.
You try to avoid attachments, anything that could hurt if you lose it. You
start to say don’t mean nothing about everything, the important things
especially. You learn that only a few people can be trusted, fewer and fewer,
in fact. You feel used by your own government. The equipment sucks, the orders
suck, you know the politicians don’t give a shit if you live or die as long as
they’re reelected. And then, if you’re special, the way I apparently was, you
get sent on a certain mission, where you can kill your own out-of-control best
friend: my blood brother Crazy Jake, still the most dangerous man I’ve ever
known. That brings it all together: the horror, the stifled grief, the
silence, the distrust, the raging, all-consuming hatred.
I got out of the cab in front of the Rex and declined a bellboy’s offer to
help me with my bag. I wasn’t going to stay here, but I remembered the hotel
from leave in Saigon and thought it would be a good starting point from which
to refamiliarize myself with the city. I was glad it was still here, the silly
crown over the marquee and all. Not just because it was inherently comforting
to know that my memories weren’t only of relics, but also because familiar
terrain would save me time and help keep me safe.
I looked across Le Loi Street and smiled. The oddly named Saigon Tax shopping
center was still there, looking much as it did in my memory, the main
difference being the replacement of a Sony neon sign by one advertising
Motorola instead. The French-designed City Hall to the Rex’s right also
remained, its cream-colored balustraded façade illuminated grandly in the
day’s fading light.
I went into the hotel. The lobby had gotten a face-lift, but in its déclassé
essentials it remained unchanged. I smiled in quiet amazement that a place
could survive war, and communism, and the passing of decades so unperturbed. I
moved in from the entryway, feeling like I was stepping back in time. The
young man I was had come here with a prostitute, more than once. I was
astonished at the clarity with which I could remember faces, and moments, even
the names they had called themselves ten thousand nights ago.
I took an interior staircase to the fifth floor, and then, ignoring the signs
warning that only registered guests were permitted beyond, I explored the
mazelike interior of the hotel. Beyond the public areas, it was all as it had
been: hallways with open balconies at their ends; faded wood paneling and
stalwart tiled floors; empty couches facing upholstered chairs in hidden
antechambers, coffee tables and ashtrays absurdly at the ready, set out in
melancholy hopes of a party that had moved on decades before. Even the fat
geckos, feasting on insects attracted to the corridors’ stark fluorescent
lighting, it was as though it had all been waiting for me.
I followed one of the staircases down to the third floor, then made my way to

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a balcony at the end of the corridor. I had a perfect view of City Hall and
the plaza in front of it. Excellent.
There was only one problem: a single inset incandescent light in the ceiling
directly above me. I took out a handkerchief and un-screwed it a few turns
until it went out. I doubted anyone would notice and fix it before tomorrow.
If they did, I would just unscrew it again.
I took the stairs back down and walked over to the statue of Ho Chi Minh on
the plaza in front of City Hall. I looked up at the hotel. The balcony I had
darkened was noticeable, but not egregiously so. There were plenty of other
lightless patches in the hotel’s façade, and I doubted Hilger would zero in on
this one. Even if he did, he’d have no way of knowing I was standing there,
shrouded in darkness.
Saigon Tax was a little less familiar, primarily because it had gone upscale
since I had last seen it. In addition to jewelry, watches, plasma televisions,
and home theater systems, there was a section selling Panasonic massage
chairs. Slowly but surely, Saigon was getting rich. But the layout was as I
remembered: four floors, with an open atrium from the ground floor all the way
up; three sets of staircases, two escalators, one elevator; entrances and
exits on three sides. Perfect.
Long into the night, I wandered District 1, the city center, re-familiarizing
myself, absorbing details. It wasn’t just the Rex: I was astonished at how
little the city itself had changed. I’d been to Bangkok less than a year
earlier and the place was barely recognizable as the city I had first visited
during the war, but communism had retarded things here, and it was only
recently that Saigon had begun to take off. Some of the street names had
changed, yes. And there were a few new high-rises—a Citibank building, one for
HSBC—but the low skyline was largely the same. I recognized some of the Rex’s
contemporaries: the Caravelle, with a tall new wing; the Majestic, still
perched above the Saigon River. The presidential palace, whose wrought-iron
gates had come crashing down under the North’s tank treads when the South fell
in 1975, had been preserved and renamed the Reunification Palace, and was now
a tourist attraction. I was amazed at the almost palpable presence of the
young man who had walked these streets and seen these sights. I no longer was
that man, but his memories were now mine, his dark gift to me; they united us
as surely as the progeny of a dissolved and loveless marriage.
I walked. The ubiquity of commerce, I noted, that too was unchanged:
motorcyclists offering impromptu taxi rides; stores selling a few spare feet
in a corner for someone to park a scooter; street vendors hawking secondhand
watches and rebuilt engines and coconut milk in plastic cups. The raw
capitalism, the economic dynamism, of the place was stunning. I wondered why
anyone had ever feared that communism could take root in this culture. The
North had swallowed Saigon like a diner ingesting a virus, and within twenty
years the virus had so infected the host that Hanoi was calling for doi moi,
politely described as “reforms,” more accurately understood simply as
“capitalism.” Save these people from communism? Christ, it was Hanoi that
needed saving now. We could have just sat back and enjoyed the show.
But that would have required patience, I supposed, and perspective, too,
neither of which was ever likely to feature prominently in anyone’s list of
the top ten American virtues. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to participate in
the current sequel: America Uses Military to Remake the Middle East and End
Tyranny in Our Time.
Sequel, my ass, I thought. It’s a fucking remake. And the end is going to be
just the same.
I was pleased to find the Opera House I remembered, now known as the Municipal
Theater. Likewise, the Notre Dame cathedral, a remnant, along with City Hall,
of French rule. I liked that the locals hadn’t tried to eradicate the
country’s colonial heritage. Their acceptance, even embrace of the past
suggested a cultural maturity I found I admired.
I smiled. Maybe I was giving them too much credit. Maybe they were just too
busy making money to care.

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I found a store that sold knives, where for ten dollars I bought a nameless
folder with a four-inch blade. I would have preferred something
higher-quality, but I had to settle for what was available. I slapped the
spine of the blade against my palm a few times, and was satisfied the lock was
adequate. Certainly the edge was sharp enough, at least for the time being.
Dox, who could be almost fetishistic about what he carried, probably would
have sneered at it. But I tend to be a meat-and-potatoes guy about blades:
insert pointy end in target. Repeat as necessary. It’s always worked for me
before.
The thought of the burly sniper bore down on me. I didn’t want to think of him
just now—there was nothing I could do for him, so the thinking was a
distraction, a waste. But for a moment, the sound of that last scream echoed
in my mind, and my worry broke through. I paused and concentrated on where I
was, what I was planning, until the emotion had passed.
As the night grew late, fatigue crept closer. Darkness softened the contours
of the city around me, and my emboldened memories emerged like insistent stars
in a fading sky. Kids, ten thousand miles from home and fresh from the jungle,
delirious with sudden freedom and the absence of fear, loosed upon the city
and looking for booze, girls, any kind of trouble. Crazy Jake, in a bar on
Dong Khoi, berserking on a navy guy who’d said something stupid to him, then
denying everything to the MPs after the guy had been ambulanced off,
persuading them, his shark’s smile and the insanity in his eyes letting them
know you fuck with me you better be ready to die. Everyone laughing nervously
after the MPs had acknowledged their mistake and shoved off, everyone but
Crazy Jake himself, who’d been ready to die right then, who’d actually
expected it, and maybe was disappointed that yet again it hadn’t happened,
that the gods of war had plans for him far from the artifice of the city with
its lights and laughter and otherworldly rules.
I hadn’t thought of Crazy Jake in years. He had thrived on the madness of war,
going deeper and deeper into that heart of darkness until he was possessed by
it, until it infused his sinews and coursed in his veins. I was the only
remaining person he trusted, and that’s why they sent me for him. He knew. I
couldn’t have done it if he hadn’t let me. He couldn’t kill what he’d become.
Someone else had to do it for him.
All at once I wanted badly to have four plain walls around me and to sleep,
especially to sleep. I caught a ride on a motorcycle cab to the New World
hotel, which my guidebook had informed me was large, anonymous, and popular
with Japanese tour groups. I took a hot bath, fell into the adequate but
unspectacular bed, and was gone as instantly as if I’d been humping a
sixty-pound ruck through the jungle, rather than wandering streets haunted by
the restless ghosts of that earlier time.
9
THE NEXT DAY, I continued to familiarize myself with the terrain: the patterns
of traffic (there weren’t any); presence of security (in front of banks,
jewelry stores, and higher-end hotels); the best vantage points (the Rex,
Saigon Tax, some of the hotel restaurants). I looked for anything out of
place, any signs of a setup. I experimented with different personas. As an
American, and carrying a map, I was assailed with offers of rides on
motorcycles and in cyclos; as a Japanese, less so; when I’d bought some local
clothes and started imitating the walk, the posture, the expressions of the
natives, I was left alone entirely.
I had a lunch of pho noodle soup and watermelon juice, then bought a camera
tripod to augment the Nikon D70 digital SLR I had brought with me. I finished
mapping things out and was satisfied. After that, I had nothing to do but
wait.

AT SIX O’CLOCK that evening, the sun had set, but the air was still hot and
wet. The back and chest of my shirt were dark with sweat, the shifting crowds
and insectile drone of motorcycles close upon me. I stopped in an ice cream
shop around the corner from the Rex to rest and wait. I bought a cone and

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enjoyed it, along with the scant, periodic relief offered by a lone
oscillating ceiling fan. Thirty people were crammed into the seats around me,
but they paid me no heed. I’d picked up the local vibe and faded right into
it.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the readout—Dox’s mobile—and picked up. “Yeah.”
“I’m here,” Hilger said. “In the city. Where are you?”
I put a fifty-thousand dong note on the table and started moving. “District
One. You?”
“The same. Where are we going to do this?”
I kept moving, watching the sidewalk and street. “You know the HSBC building?”
“No, but I’m sure I can find it.”
“Ask anyone. You can see it from most of District One—there aren’t many
high-rises. There’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. Meet me there in ten
minutes.”
I clicked off and headed into the Rex. Two minutes later, I was in my
third-floor balcony perch. No one had fixed the lightbulb. I set up the camera
and tripod, then looked down at the statue of Ho through the 400mm telephoto
lens. I could see every detail. If anyone asked, I was just a Japanese
photography hobbyist, trying to capture the essence of the plaza below me. But
I didn’t expect to be challenged. The Rex was never that kind of place.
Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Hilger. “You’re not here,” he
said.
“I got nervous. I wanted something more public.”
There was a pause. “Don’t fuck with me, Rain. If I abort this meeting, your
friend is going to die.”
That was a bluff. Whatever he wanted from me, he wanted it badly enough to
have come this far. I could safely take him along a little farther.
“I’m not fucking with you,” I said. “Just walk to the City Hall, the huge
French building a block south of you. There’s a plaza in front of the building
with a statue of Ho Chi Minh. Lots of people around. Meet me in front of the
statue.”
Two minutes later, he showed. Through the camera lens, I could see everything
in the brightly lit plaza, even the beads of perspiration on Hilger’s face.
His right side was to me. I didn’t see an earpiece. So far, so good.
This time I called him. “Are you there yet?” I asked.
He looked around. “Yeah, I’m here. Why aren’t you?”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being too careful. You’re going to blow this whole thing.”
“How do I know you’re not setting me up?
“You’re the one who asked for this meeting, remember?”
There was a pause. I said, “There’s a shopping center right in front of you,
if your back is to City Hall. Saigon Tax, the one with the big Motorola sign
on the façade, across the street from the Sheraton. With a Citibank building
visible behind it. I’m inside, in the Góc Saigon café. Rooftop of the shopping
center. Come on up and you can find me.”
I watched him glance behind, then to the sides, then up at the buildings
around him. I waited, and was rewarded with a close view of his left
ear—empty, like his right. His eyes swept right over the dark spot where I
stood. That’s right, I thought. I might be here. Or in Saigon Tax. Or in a
room at the Sheraton. Or maybe I set up video in one of the vans in front of
the Rex and I’m watching you remotely. Or I’m not watching you at all. The
point is, you don’t fucking know.
He clicked off without a word and headed up the plaza, toward Saigon Tax. I
tracked him through the camera for a moment, then watched the plaza unaided.
A few seconds later, I spotted a burly blond guy moving casually behind Hilger
and in the same direction. I looked through the camera and saw that his eyes
were everywhere, taking in all the details, his head tracking slowly left and
right as he walked. The visual alertness was out of sync with the casual gait,
and I made him as Hilger’s backup. I made him so fast, in fact, that I
wondered for a moment whether he was supposed to serve not just as backup, but

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also as a distraction. The idea is, the opposition knows you’re looking for
backup, or for surveillance, or whatever, so it serves up exactly what you
expect. And because you’ve now spotted the danger you knew was going to be
there, your mind unconsciously closes to other, less obvious possibilities. I
knew there was going to be something…oh, there it is! is the mindset of
amateurs and others without much hope of longevity in this business. I knew
there was going to be something…there’s one, now where are the others? is the
mindset of survivors.
The guy kept gliding forward like a panther, confident, balanced. He was
wearing rectangular, wireless glasses, and felt vaguely European to me. I
wondered if he was the one who had picked up the phone when I first called
from Paris. There was a readiness about him, not just in his alertness but in
his balance, his stride. If I had to take him out, I would definitely use a
tool, along with as much surprise as I could muster.
I snapped a dozen photos, then examined the plaza for any other possibles in
Hilger’s wake. This was the hotel district, and there were foreigners around,
but none of them tickled my radar. They were either too old, or too flabby, or
with women and children. Most relevantly, none of them had that quality, no
matter how subtle, of exceptional awareness that’s almost impossible to
conceal when you’re moving and operational. I folded up the tripod, put it in
my backpack, and headed up to the Rex’s rooftop bar. Concealed behind a garden
that hadn’t existed back in the day, I had a perfect view of the sidewalk in
front of Saigon Tax. Mr. Blond was waiting on the sidewalk outside.
If Hilger was willing to let Mr. Blond drift that far behind him, he really
must have been confident I wouldn’t try to take him out while he held Dox. Or
else Mr. Blond really was a distraction, in which case someone more subtle
would shortly follow Hilger into the building. I waited, but saw no one I
identified as a problem.
I headed down an internal staircase, cut southwest on Le Loi, then crossed the
street with fifty other pedestrians, motorcycles buzzing around us. On the
other side of the street was a parking garage with its own entrance into
Saigon Tax. I slipped inside, checking hot spots as I moved. Nothing rubbed me
the wrong way. I turned a corner and waited. No one came in behind me. I
waited for another minute, making sure Hilger had time to get to the
restaurant ahead of me.
I entered Saigon Tax and used one of the internal staircases, pausing at the
balcony of each successive floor to look above and below. Still nothing out of
place. I continued to the fourth floor, where I cut across to the northeast
side of the building, scanning as I moved. Still clear.
I came to the stairs that led to the Góc Saigon. I took one last look around.
All clear. Okay.
I turned off my phone and turned on the other miniature bit of electronics I
was carrying, a bug detector my martyred friend Harry, a hacker adept at
kluging together all kinds of improvised devices, had made for me in Tokyo. If
Hilger was wired, the detector would vibrate in my pocket and let me know. I
headed up the steps to the restaurant.
The place sprawled out in an L shape, partly under a roof, mostly under the
dark Saigon sky. Wood floors, slatted wooden tables and chairs, twinkling
lights strung out across plantings like Christmas ornaments. Diners, but only
a handful because it was still early, and none who appeared to have just
arrived.
A hostess approached. I glanced at her, saw she wasn’t a threat, and went back
to scanning the restaurant. The woman offered to seat me. I shook my head but
otherwise ignored her and kept moving.
I hadn’t seen Hilger yet, so if he was here, he must be around the corner, in
the short end of the L. I kept close to the inner wall, came to the edge, and
snuck a quick peek around. There he was, sitting in the corner, his back to
the concrete wall, his feet planted under him, ready to move, his head up and
his eyes alive. The surrounding tables were all empty, this end of the L
momentarily deserted.

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He stood when he saw me coming and took a step back from the table, but
slowly, showing me his hands. They were empty, the fingers splayed slightly. I
approached him in the same nonthreatening way.
I moved toward him until I was in front of his table, then turned and faced
him so my side was to the corner of the L. I wanted to be able to see anyone
who came in after me and still have time to react.
He angled slightly away from me so that I was facing more of his left side
than his front. He rubbed his chin with his left hand, the forearm vertical
across his body, the other hand touching his elbow. I noted from the stance
that he was right-handed, confirming my recollection of what I’d learned while
witnessing his pistol craft at the China Club and at Kwai Chung the last two
times we’d crossed paths. Although it was intended to look thoughtful and
nonthreatening, the stance covered up most of his vital points. He was
concerned I might attack. He was right to be.
Not for the first time, it occurred to me that he must be highly motivated to
incur the risks he was running. I wondered what he was after, and who he could
be working for.
“Let’s go,” I said.
He looked doubtful. “Where?”
“Someplace else. You might have called someone and told him where we are.”
“I’m alone.”
I wasn’t going to tip my hand by asking about Mr. Blond. “That’s good to
hear,” I said. “Indulge me anyway.”
I’m not getting any younger, but I have still two advantages. First, I’ve
always been unusually quick—partly the result of genetics, partly of obsessive
training. Second, I can go from stonelike stillness to explosive violence
without any of the usual precursors. The signs people know to look for—obvious
ones, like shouting, gesticulating, and other posturing, and less obvious
ones, like the face going white and the pupils dilating—I don’t exhibit, or
have learned to mask. I can hurt you, or worse, and the only sign you’ll have
of what’s coming is that I was close enough to do it.
Hilger didn’t know that. I was close, sure, but the sum total of his
experience would be telling him that there’d be some warning, some noticeable
transition, and that therefore he would have the necessary moment to react. So
it really wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t ready for what happened next.
“You need to…” he started to say.
I closed the distance with one long step, my lead hand feinting for his face.
His eyes popped open in surprise and his arms flinched upward—away from my
trailing knee, which arced up and slightly around on the way to its abrupt
run-in with his balls. He made a sound you might describe as vomitus
interruptus and doubled over into me. I shoved him into the wall and had the
folder open against his neck in an instant. The edge might not have offered
longevity, but it was plenty sharp at the moment, and I pressed it against his
carotid, the pressure just short of breaking the skin, my fist in his Adam’s
apple, my left hand securing his right wrist and keeping it away from anything
he might have in his pocket.
“Hands up, shitbag,” I breathed. “Against the wall, alongside your head. Move
for a weapon and I’ll open you down to your spine.”
Beyond my substantive need to check him for weapons, it was important that I
give him an option other than resistance or death. If he were convinced I was
going to kill him, I couldn’t expect cooperation. As it was, he decided to
comply. He grimaced and slowly got his arms up against the wall. His head was
pressed back, his chin tucked in against my fist, his nostrils flaring with
his breathing. His eyes were narrowed to slits, coldly observing me.
I stared back at him, and realized with a start how close I was to doing it.
Grab his hair, shove his head to the left, rip right, sidestep to avoid the
spray. Walk outside, fillet Mr. Blond before he had a chance to react. Go
Keyser Söze on them, let the remnants of Hilger’s team understand who they
were fucking with and what was coming for them next.
“I don’t check in, my men do Dox,” he said, as though reading my thoughts.

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“It’s automatic.”
Maybe, I thought. Or maybe your men let Dox go at that point, to mollify me.
What good is he to them, anyway, if you’re dead? Yeah, let him go. A
quitclaim, a peace offering.
Jesus. I wanted to kill him so badly I was actually panting a little. And
rationalizing everything else, even Dox’s life, to give myself permission.
Do it. Just fucking do it. End it now and you can walk away.
I imagined Dox, helpless somewhere, cut off, in pain, and somehow the thought
stayed my hand. My whole body trembling with ambivalence, I turned Hilger
around and patted him down. He was carrying two knives, a folder and a belt
unit. I pocketed both. Next, Dox’s mobile phone. I turned it off and pocketed
it, too. Other than a roll of dong and greenbacks, he was carrying nothing
else, not even a wallet.
I backed away from him, closing the knife as I moved. I put it back in my
pants, noting that Harry’s bug detector had stopped vibrating the moment I had
turned off Dox’s phone. Hilger was clean.
I watched him, dumbfounded, on some level, that he was still alive, that I’d
managed to hold back. He swallowed and his right hand drifted to his throat,
rubbing it, caressing the undamaged skin. He was breathing hard.
The hostess turned the corner and pulled up short. She hadn’t seen what had
happened a second earlier, but she could feel the aftermath. I glanced at her
and said, “Give us a minute.” She nodded and backed away.
I looked at Hilger. “Let’s go.”
He shook his head. “Out of the question,” he rasped.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” I said, a part of me shouting It’s not too
late—just step back in and fucking finish him! “If I wanted to kill you, you’d
be bleeding out right now. You said it yourself: I can’t touch you while
you’re holding Dox. I’m the one who has to worry about surprises, not you.
There’s no reason we can’t walk out of here together. Unless you want to keep
me here because you’ve got backup you told about this meeting place. In which
case, I’m going to assume this was a setup.”
What I’d said was logical. Which is why I wanted him to refuse. If he did, I
would have no choice. I could butcher him and whatever happened to Dox after
wouldn’t be my fault.
He didn’t say anything. He might have been considering my point. He might have
been thinking about the hostess, and wondering whether she was freaked out
enough to call the police. He might have seen in my eyes how much I was hoping
he would refuse. Regardless, after a moment he nodded.
We left Saigon Tax through the garage entrance, heading southwest on Le Loi
and then turning left on Pasteur. I flagged down a cab and had it take us to
the Ben Thanh Market, a labyrinthine produce emporium stretching out over an
entire city block. I watched behind us as we moved, but couldn’t be sure amid
all the motorcycles that no one was following us. Inside the market, there
were hundreds of Vietnamese, shuffling along. Hilger and I moved fast and
directly, and I didn’t see anyone trying to match our pace, but still, I
wasn’t as sure as I usually am, or as I like to be. I reminded myself Hilger
had been in the city only for a day. Hiring and deploying local talent that
fast would have been a hell of a stretch.
Hilger kept up and didn’t give me any more trouble. We got another cab on the
Le Thanh Ton side of the market, which I had take us to the Park Hyatt. The
route gave me another opportunity to check behind us, when we turned right on
Hai Ba Trung. I didn’t think I saw anyone follow us from the market, but…damn
it, there were just so many motorcycles, and so many dark stretches of street,
and so many of the riders were wearing face masks against the pollution. Did I
see that guy earlier, the skinny one in the white tee-shirt, with the black
bandanna around his face? Or had that been someone else?
We rode in silence. I noted again that, whatever was motivating Hilger to do
all this, it had to be powerful. But what?
I hadn’t counted on so much motorcycle traffic. When I was here during the
war, it had been mostly cars, along with jeeps and lumbering

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deuce-and-a-halfs, of course. The countersurveillance environment was tougher
now. I would have to use extraordinary caution later, when I left the meeting.
But at least I’d be safe inside. The reason I had chosen the hotel, Saigon’s
newest and most deluxe, was that it offered the kind of camera surveillance,
guards, and other security that would inhibit an on-the-premises hit.
The cab deposited us at the midpoint of a semicircular driveway. Twin bellmen
opened the hotel’s wide double doors and welcomed us. We made our way to the
lobby lounge along polished wood floors and muted Persian rugs. There was some
jockeying for position as we chose where to sit. In the end, we wound up
adjacent to each other at a table along the exterior wall, both of us facing
the expansive, two-storied room. The lounge was lit softly by several
hammered-metal chandeliers high overhead, and we were surrounded by the sounds
of conversation and laughter from the mostly expat crowd around us. It was a
safe scene, and therefore surreal.
We sat silently for a few moments, each trying to wait the other out. A pretty
waitress broke the standoff by coming to our table and handing us menus. “My
name is Ngan,” she said. “May I bring you something to drink?”
Hilger surprised me by asking, “Are you hungry?”
In fact, I was. I’d been keyed up all afternoon and evening, and hadn’t
realized that my pho lunch was long gone. And now that the immediate danger
was under control, my stomach was demanding attention.
I nodded warily.
“Why don’t you order for us,” he said. “You know the cuisine better than I
do.”
I took a quick glance at the menu and selected a variety of spring rolls and
dumplings. Hilger surprised me again by ordering a beer. I stayed with orange
juice.
Neither of us spoke until Ngan had returned with the drinks and food. When she
was gone, Hilger took a sip of his beer and said, “It must feel strange for
you to be back here.”
I figured the comment was an elicitation ploy, an attempt to draw something
out of me. But I wasn’t sure what. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Memories. My place was the desert. I was in Iraq for the first
go-round, and now, you put me someplace with a lot of sand and superheated dry
wind, and bam, I go all the way back, body and soul. Like I never left. People
who haven’t had that kind of experience…they don’t understand. It’s like they
live in two dimensions and you live in three.”
I knew what he was talking about. The part of you that’s formed in battle will
always respond to being back on the battlefield. And when you return, I was
learning, it feels as though some fitfully sleeping part of you stirs to
wakefulness, while the person you thought you were surrenders as quietly as a
dream. Maybe that was the paranoia I was feeling. That older self, the self
that had kept me alive in the jungle, in places and circumstances where so
many other men had died.
We started in on the spring rolls. A table full of Americans to our right
erupted in loud laughter at something one of their party had said. Hilger
glanced over and shook his head.
“Look at those people,” he said. “Think they own this place, don’t they, think
they own the world. Makes me sick sometimes.”
I watched them for a moment, and found I couldn’t disagree. What I saw was a
collection of overfed, overprivileged sheep who were born to whatever they had
and whose only understanding of real fear and privation was what they received
from images broadcast on CNN between commercial breaks for smile-whitening
toothpaste and mountain-fresh fabric softeners. They condescended to the
locals because the locals needed their money and had to serve them to get it.
They didn’t understand that the service was like what the staff provides to
the inhabitants of a nursing home. They confused stoicism with passivity,
service with servility, the current world order with some ordained plan. They
didn’t realize the people they looked down on now were going to own them a
little later this century. Or, at the rate the West was going, maybe just bury

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them, instead.
He popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it. He shook his
head. “Makes me wonder why I bother.”
I looked at him, intrigued that he was able to laugh and break bread with
someone who not an hour earlier had very nearly executed him. I didn’t read
this as weakness. On the contrary, Hilger’s easy recovery from our earlier
encounter suggested a long and comfortable acquaintance with violence. And
more than that, a man so ruthlessly adept at compartmentalizing the personal
and the professional that he would be capable of almost anything. If he deemed
something necessary, I expected he would act with little compunction and even
less warning.
“Why do you bother?” I asked.
He looked away, and for a moment his gaze was distant. I wondered what he was
seeing.
“Because things are broken,” he said. “People used to think broken meant a
system that could only respond to a crisis. But that’s not broken. Broken is a
system that can’t even respond to a crisis.”
“What crisis are you talking about?”
He took a swallow of beer. He glanced at me, then shook his head as though
disappointed. “If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Why don’t you try me?”
“I’m talking about America. The wheels are coming off, haven’t you noticed?
And what are you supposed to do if you care? Join a protest march? A letter to
your gerrymandered congressman? What?”
It’s been my experience that people who can express their political views only
in metaphors and passionate generalizations are fanatics. Hilger might have
been one of them. Or maybe he was trying to obscure his true affiliations, or
his lack of any at all. Or this whole conversation was his attempt to draw me
out, to gather intelligence about me. Or all of the above.
“I don’t know,” I said. “What are you supposed to do?”
Therapists call it reflection: repeating the patient’s words, rephrased as a
question. I had dealt with enough Army shrinks back in the day to find the
technique stupid and annoying, and it’s so basic that even machines have been
programmed to do it. But it can create a sense of empathy, or in this case its
illusion, and draw a subject out.
It didn’t work with Hilger. He said only, “What you can.”
Which in his case, I gathered, was a lot.
I waited, hoping he would add something I could use. After a moment, he said,
“It’s too bad it has to be this way with us. I respect you. We ought to be
able to work together. I work with a lot of guys like you.”
“Like me how?”
He shrugged. “Smart. Independent. With the insight to understand the way
things really work.”
I felt the manipulation, but didn’t know where he was trying to steer me. “I
don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. You know democracy’s just a pretty picture. And that to ensure
its survival and preserve its appearance, certain men have always done things
that no one else can know.”
“Assassinations.”
“Exactly.”
“Coups.”
“Sure.”
“Kidnapping?”
He shrugged. “We call them ‘extraordinary renditions.’”
“Abu Ghraib.”
He shook his head. “I’m not talking about Abu Ghraib. AG was exactly the way
not to go about it. People say what happened there is immoral. Shit, it’s
worse than immoral. It’s incompetent. The whole thing was nothing but a
fishing expedition. Widespread and sanctioned. And once it got out,
predictably, we had to bend over backward in the other direction because of

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all the media scrutiny.”
“I thought the VP said waterboarding was a ‘no-brainer.’ And that was after
AG.”
“Believe me, the right people had a lot more freedom before AG. Anyway, the VP
doesn’t know what he’s talking about. None of them do. That’s the point. With
guys like that in the limelight, more than ever you need the right things done
in the dark.”
Okay, so this was “you and I are the pros and everyone else is incompetent.”
If he thought that would save him when this was done, he was wrong.
I looked at him. “Yeah? How do you know when it’s right?”
He returned the look. “When it’s necessary.”
“And when is that?”
“When you need something, and there’s no other way to get it.”
“How did you know there was no other way here? You never asked me.”
“Some things you just know.”
“Why don’t you ask me now.”
He shook his head. “Now I’m not asking. I’m telling you. That’s why I had to
go through Dox. Because it has to get done.”
A long silent moment passed. I tried not to think of Dox. It helped me keep
the latent lust to kill Hilger momentarily on a leash.
“All right,” I said. “Tell me what you want.”
He glanced around, then leaned forward. “Three jobs, like I told you. When
you’re done with the first, I’ll give you the second. When you’re done with
the second, I’ll give you the third. When you’re done with the third, I’ll
release Dox.”
I looked at him. When I spoke, it was half directed at Hilger, half to appease
the iceman.
“If you do anything permanent to him,” I said, “you know I’ll find you. And
you know what I’ll do to you.”
He offered a faint, humorless smile. “You’re being generous. You’re going to
try to find me the moment I let him go, if not before.”
“There’s something you need to understand. I’ve been trying to get out of the
life. If I have to revert to protect a friend, I will. But I don’t want to go
any further than I have to. Yeah, right now I’m upset. I don’t like the way
you got me to the negotiating table. But if you play it straight from here, we
might all be able to walk away from this.”
There was a lot of truth in there. Which made it the best kind of lie.
Hilger nodded, but that was all. I didn’t know whether he’d bought it.
“Let me talk to him again,” I said.
He shook his head. “You’ve talked to him once. You can talk to him again
after. After each one.”
Something told me I wasn’t going to win on this point and I let it go. I
rotated my head, cracking the neck joints. “All right,” I said, “the first
one. Who, where, when, how.”
“Who is Jan Jannick, Dutch national, male, forty-five years old. Where is the
San Francisco Bay Area, where he’s temporarily resident. When is within five
days from today. And how is something that absolutely looks natural.”
The appearance of natural causes is my specialty, and the reason I’ve always
been able to charge a premium. Except, of course, when I’m working under
duress, when my fees tend to be…waived. I assumed it was the “naturalness”
imperative that made Hilger need me, but there might have been more.
“Why natural?”
“You know why. I don’t want anyone asking questions.”
“I’m asking why you don’t want the questions.”
“That’s not something you need to know.”
I thought for a moment. “Five days to get to San Francisco, track this guy,
find him, identify a pattern, select an opportunity, plan for an
escape…there’s no way. You know that.”
“We already have a lot of the information you’ll need. Home and work
addresses, things like that. It’ll save you time. I’ll upload it to the

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bulletin board.”
“Even so…”
“Jannick is a civilian. He has no surveillance consciousness at all, no
security, no clue. He’s as soft a target as you’ve ever gone after. The only
trick is making it look natural. That’s why I want you.”
“If he’s that easy, anyone could have done it the way you want.”
“He’s only one of three, remember. And you’re wrong about just anyone being
able to do it. Making it look natural is harder than hell, except in the
movies, and you know it. You’ve got a talent. It’s why we’re here.”
There was a lot he wasn’t telling me, of course. So all I could do was
continue to engage him, continue to try to gather the information that would
get Dox out of this. After all, I understood profoundly that Hilger would kill
Dox the moment I was done with whatever he wanted doing. Even if I were
inclined to give Hilger a pass for his transgression, he couldn’t count on one
from Dox. And if Dox and I came after him together, his prospects would be
bleak indeed.
Hilger, of course, could do this math as well as I could. And the ruthlessness
I sensed in his poise would turn the situation into a simple equation for him,
an equation for which the solution set would be obvious, and therefore
imperative.
He knew I knew all this. Which meant the third target might be fictitious. I
would kill the first two to buy time, thinking I had one more to go before
Hilger killed Dox, but in fact I’d have unwittingly finished the whole job at
the second target, at which point Dox would die. The third job, then, would be
a setup. They’d feed me coordinates on some easy-to-track civilian on terrain
they knew well, and when I showed up to take out the red herring, I’d walk
into an ambush. Meaning, in effect, that the third target would be me.
Or maybe I’d be the second. Maybe Jannick was Hilger’s only objective, and
when he was done, so was Dox. So was I. There were a lot of possibilities,
none of them good.
“Are you satisfied?” Hilger asked, as though reading my thoughts.
“With what?”
“With having looked in my eyes. Trusting me to let Dox go when this is done.”
“No. I don’t trust you to do that. But I learned something else from your
eyes.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
From his tone, I knew he was concerned that I might have picked up some piece
of information he didn’t want me to have. Why else would I have insisted on a
meeting? Trusting someone because of what you see in his eyes is a load of
shit, although the latest bozo in the White House claimed to have managed a
view of Vladimir Putin’s soul that way. And it was clear after what happened
in Góc Saigon that I wasn’t going to kill him. What else could I have been
after, if not information?
I thought of Mr. Blond. Maybe I’d lost him. Maybe not. Maybe there had been
others I hadn’t spotted. I realized now that I’d been wrong in thinking Mr.
Blond, and any others, were only backup for Hilger, or part of a setup. More
likely, they were a plan B. If I refused to follow instructions, they would
have tried to kill me here. Then they would do Dox immediately after.
I took a deep breath, then let it go. “I learned I don’t have a choice.”
He nodded. “You got that right.”
I stood up and took out his knives. I wiped them off with a napkin—I don’t
like leaving my fingerprints on weapons—and placed them on the table. He made
no immediate move for them, which was smart. I put Dox’s phone on the table,
too. There was no way Hilger would have been stupid enough to have used it for
any sensitive calls, so there was nothing to gain by taking it. And I wanted a
way to reach him quickly if necessary.
“When will the information be on the bulletin board?” I asked.
“It’s there now.”
I looked at him. For the moment, the urge to kill him had faded into the
background, like what happens when you get so hungry your appetite temporarily

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dissipates.
“I’ll be in touch when it’s done,” I said.
He nodded. “I know.”
I turned and walked away. He could damn well pay for the spring rolls himself.
10
DOX SAT ON the cot in the cramped, windowless boat cabin, the lights off, his
eyes closed, a small smile on his face. He’d long since told himself every
joke he’d ever known, three times over, four or five for his favorites. He’d
recollected the layout of his childhood house, and imagined himself building
it, starting with the foundation, then brick by brick, all the way to the roof
and the detail work. Now he was trying to remember the name of every girl he’d
ever slept with, but it just wasn’t possible because, well, there had been
quite a few. The first ten were easy to come up with, even though it had been
a long time ago, but once he got up into the double digits, things got tricky.
He tried a different tack, focusing only on the ones who’d been lucky enough
to surrender him their virginity, but the truth was, that was a reasonably
lengthy list, too. He knew he’d never remember them all, and that was sad, but
still it was fun to try, and it wasn’t like he had anything else to occupy his
mind here.
He was shackled like a federal prisoner: leg irons, wrist manacles, and a
chain connecting the two. They weren’t being overly generous about the length
of chain involved, either. He couldn’t so much walk as shuffle along, bent
over like an old man. If he got an itch on his nose, the only way to scratch
it was to push his face against the wall and rub. The room had its own head,
and he supposed he ought to be grateful for that, but wiping his ass chained
as he was wasn’t exactly the high point of his day. He was half-tempted to
beat the bishop, more than half-tempted, if the truth be told, especially with
all these thoughts of girls he’d deflowered, and with his hands stuck right in
front of his crotch, he could have, too. But the possibility of his captors
sniggering at the sounds of his chains clanking in the dark would be an
unbearable indignity. Besides, how the hell would he clean up the mess.
The one thing he wanted to do more than anything when he got out of this,
well, besides standing up straight and stretching, that was the main thing,
but besides that, the thing he wanted most was just to brush his teeth. The
last time he’d had a chance had been the morning they’d grabbed him, and at
this point it felt like he had a moss forest growing in his mouth.
He’d considered every variety of possible escape, but he couldn’t see a way
out. The door was always locked. He’d tested it with his shoulder and knew it
was heavy and solid. Unshackled, he might have been able to bust it open,
although it opened inward so maybe not, but in these chains he could develop
all the momentum of a pregnant penguin, and he certainly couldn’t kick. The
door had a small window, too, and they were careful always to look in on him
before entering. But hell, they could come in blindfolded and what could he
do, shuffle over and head-butt them in the shoulders like the friggin’ Black
Knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Call them dirty names?
He might have tried bellowing like a madman when he sensed they were in port,
but he doubted anyone would hear. He didn’t know how big the boat was—they’d
kept him blindfolded while they were moving him about—but they’d taken him
down some steps and then across a short corridor to put him in this room, so
he knew he was on a lower level and almost certainly in an interior room. No,
the chances of any good coming from shouting were awfully remote, while the
chances of someone coming in and smacking him in the guts with a truncheon and
duct-taping his mouth shut and hooding him after for good measure were fairly
high. It just wasn’t a percentage move.
He hadn’t been much mistreated, he had to admit, if he was willing to discount
that initial waterboarding and some electric shock they’d applied to his feet
after to get him to scream over the phone for Rain’s benefit. Jesus Christ
almighty, the waterboarding was flat-out awful. The hell of it was how
short-lived the effects were. One second you’re pissing-your-pants-panicked,
and then a minute later you’re rational again, swearing you won’t break this

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time. Except you do. It was unnerving to be swept away by blind fear that
way—it was like losing control of your bowels or something, but a hundred
times worse. Hilger was right, going through it at SERE was one thing, having
the bad guys do it to you with real intent was something else entirely. That
vice president who’d called it “a dunking” ought to have his head pulled out
of his ass.
They’d left him in his cold, wet, soiled clothes for about a day and hadn’t
fed him at first, either. That meant they were still checking on the
information he’d given them, wanting to keep him uncomfortable and mindful of
his recent ordeal so they could break him again more easily if it turned out
he’d been bullshitting them. When they hosed him off, changed him into a
clean, dry track suit, and left him food and water, he knew something had been
worked out. And whatever it was, his life was part of the bargain.
They’d pretty much left him alone after that, except when they’d put him on
the phone with Rain. That conversation had been hard. Rain was his buddy, and
he knew the man wouldn’t quit until he’d gotten him free or died himself in
the process. He was ashamed his carelessness had put his partner in this
position, and it was awful knowing Rain was out there doing God knows what,
while he was here, chained up and helpless to change the odds even a little.
They were even feeding him well enough, he supposed, with two hot meals a day
in styrofoam containers that he ate hunched over with a plastic spoon.
Sometimes the food was Chinese, sometimes Malay, sometimes Indian. Which
didn’t mean much, because you could get all three at pretty much any food
stall in Southeast Asia, and it all froze and microwaved just fine. They could
be anywhere. There was no porthole in his room, and his only sense of place
was the rise and fall of the swells beneath them and the sound of the engine
when they were moving. He didn’t even know what time of day it was, or night,
for that matter.
His worst immediate problem, aside from shame, boredom, and the feeling that
his tongue was cultivating lichens, was the Mexican, whom Dox thought of as
Uncle Fester for both his bald head and his crazy eyes. The man had a touch of
the sadist in him—more than a touch, in fact. Every now and then he liked to
pop into the cabin and get in a cheap shot. The first time it had been in the
gut, but Dox had seen it coming and even though the fuckwit knew how to punch,
the damage hadn’t been too bad. But there were other places to hit. He’d kneed
Dox in the coccyx once and the spot still hurt like hell and made sitting in
his chains even less pleasant than it otherwise would have been. The man was
picking his targets, Dox realized early on, so as not to leave marks. He
figured Hilger, who while clearly being a four-alarm psycho in his own special
way also seemed to be guided by some sort of professional ethos, would have
taken a dim view of gratuitous treatment of a prisoner, and the bald guy was
being careful because of it.
The last two days had been particularly bad. The only people he saw were the
bald guy and the boyish-looking one, who Dox knew goddamn well at this point
was anything but boyish, and he figured Hilger and the blond dude had gone
somewhere. With fewer people around, Uncle Fester seemed to be emboldened.
The punishment hadn’t stopped him from provoking the dude with insults,
though. On the contrary, more than ever his dignity required that he prove he
was unbowed. There wasn’t much he could be proud of at the moment, but
standing up to that piece of shit, insulting him grievously enough to make him
an enemy, that was something. His body was paying for it, but it was helping
keep his spirit alive.
He shifted on the cot and winced at the pain in his lower back. Yeah, he liked
putting that fucker down, and he didn’t mind suffering for it, either. ’Cause
when this was over, he was going to make Uncle Fester pay for all of it, and
with more interest than the man could ever hope to come up with.
He just had to live through it first.
11
I WENT OUT the back of the hotel and made a variety of aggressive moves until
satisfied I was clean. Then I found an Internet café where, after the usual

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examination for spyware, I checked the bulletin board I used with my contact
in the CIA, a young Japanese-American in Tokyo Station named Tomohisa “Tom”
Kanezaki. Kanezaki and I had first run into each other a few years earlier,
when he’d been a green, idealistic Agency recruit newly posted to Tokyo. He’d
quickly figured out the way his superiors were using him, though, and was a
sufficiently quick study to turn the tables on them and survive. Since then,
I’d helped him with a few off-the-books matters, and could typically count on
him for information, and sometimes equipment, albeit always at a price. I
wondered what the price would be this time. Whatever it was, I’d have to pay
it. I knew I couldn’t get Dox out of the jam he was in without Kanezaki’s
help.
The bulletin board was empty. I didn’t know when Kanezaki might check it, so I
sent him a text message from an e-mail account he would recognize as mine: You
in Tokyo? Need to meet. Although over the years Kanezaki had managed to
achieve a relatively mild rating on my threat assessment matrix, I would have
preferred not to warn him I was coming. But I also wanted to make sure he was
in town when I arrived, not on temporary duty someplace else.
I thought. Hilger must have had family somewhere. Find them, take them…offer
them up as a hostage exchange? Maybe. Kanezaki could probably point me in the
right direction, assuming he didn’t balk at the nature of my interest. But if
there were family, how close were they to Hilger? How much would he care? And
even if he did care, how likely was it that I could kidnap someone, hold him,
and negotiate Dox’s release, all on my own? While faced with a five-day
deadline?
Maybe I could use family as a threat: Kill Dox, and I’ll slaughter your aging
parents, or your adorable nieces, or whatever. Hilger might know about my
rules regarding women and children, but what he saw in my eyes in the Góc
Saigon would have shaken his confidence.
But no, that kind of threat could take things in unpredictable directions. I’d
given Hilger a slim reed of hope with my talk about getting out of the life.
Better to leave it at that, play along for time, and work my way back to him,
and wherever he was holding Dox.
After five minutes, I checked the e-mail account again. Kanezaki’s reply was
already waiting, a simple, I’m here.
I purged the e-mail account and purged and shut down the browser, then left
for another Internet café. My paranoia was running hot, and I didn’t want to
do anything else on the same computer, with the same identifiable IP address,
I had just used to contact Kanezaki. I doubted Hilger would be able to trace
me through a Saigon Internet café IP address, and even if he could, at most
he’d only be able to tell where I’d gone on the Net, not what I’d done or said
there. But I’ve lived as long as I have by not taking risks without good
reasons.
From the second café, I checked on flights out of Saigon. There was a 9:10
P.M. ANA flight to Bangkok that night. Perfect. From Bangkok I would have my
pick of flights to Tokyo. I booked the flight, purged again, and went to a
third café.
This time, I Googled Jannick. The first hit identified him as the founder and
CEO of a Silicon Valley startup called Deus Ex Technologies. “From God”
Technologies…whatever they were selling, they weren’t modest about it.
I followed the link and perused the site. Once I finished sorting through the
jargon about migration automation and cross-platform schema and
backpropagation and Bayesian theory, I understood that DET’s focus was
databases, specifically database search. They were trying to use neural
networks—computers modeled on the cortex of the human brain—to spot previously
hidden patterns in massive databases.
Jannick had earned a Ph.D. in computer science at Stanford University in 1982.
Since then he’d worked for Microsoft, Oracle, and several small companies I
hadn’t heard of. DET was his first startup. I checked the funding page, and
was surprised to see that Jannick was funded by In-Q-Tel—the CIA’s venture
capital fund. I didn’t know what it meant, but it had to mean something.

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I thought about what Kanezaki had once told me about Hilger’s privatized
intelligence outfit. Unencumbered by congressional oversight, he could go
places and do things the CIA couldn’t. It wasn’t clear how he had gotten
started—on his own, or with his own version of governmental venture capital
backing. Whatever the answer, the funds would be untraceable now, deniable. If
Hilger’s activities got out, his customers, or his paymasters, would simply
express shock and dismay at the uncovering of this “rogue” operation; reaffirm
the importance of proper oversight; and, if necessary, convene a blue ribbon
commission to whitewash the government’s complicity and decide on an
appropriate fall guy. Thank you for playing, Mr. Hilger. Next contestant.
It was natural enough, I supposed. Democracy is about checks and balances. But
if the policymakers find they’re being checked and balanced a little too much,
they look for what the software types call work-arounds. Can you blame them?
You might as well blame water for trying to go around a rock. It’s not a
question of blame and fault; it’s a question of nature and proclivities. If
there were no demand for Hilger’s services, or for mine, for that matter,
there wouldn’t be a supply.
I wondered why Hilger would want to eliminate the CEO of a CIA-funded outfit
offering neural net database technology. Was Jannick competition of some sort?
Did his work interfere with something Hilger was trying to do, or threaten a
market Hilger wanted to get into? No way to know, not yet.
I considered how Hilger might try to trace me, making sure I hadn’t missed
anything. He would expect me to Google Jannick right away. If he had access to
the data, he could start with searches for Jan Jannick that occurred, say, one
hour after our meeting at the Park Hyatt. Cross-reference the hits with
servers in Vietnam, and you’d have the IP address of the computer I used. A
long shot, maybe, but not impossible. But now, even if he had the access, he
could confirm no more than that I’d checked out Jannick, as he would have
suspected. My other Internet activity would remain sterile.
I caught a cab back to my hotel, collected my gear, and headed directly to the
airport. Hilger might have anticipated the move and put people at one of the
choke points inside—check-in, maybe, or outside customs—but I doubted it. Too
many cameras, too much security. Also, my gut told me he really wanted Jannick
dead. If so, I’d be safe until it happened.
Afterward was a different story.
12
HILGER DID a surveillance detection route, and, when he was satisfied neither
Rain nor anyone else was following him, headed to the Sheraton, his rendezvous
point with Demeere. He walked slowly, sweating in the tropical evening heat,
only dimly aware of the humidity and the smell of diesel and spices he
couldn’t name, ignoring the incessant horns, the shouted invitations from
motorcycle cabs, the dizzying whine of two-stroke engines.
That had been a close thing with Rain, a hell of a close thing. If the man had
been bluffing at the Góc Saigon, it was the best bluff Hilger had ever seen.
When Rain held that knife to his neck, and he saw what was in Rain’s eyes, he
really thought he was done. He had thought, I miscalculated, he doesn’t care
about Dox, the crazy bastard’s going to kill me right here.
Hilger had been an inch from death twice before. The first time was in
Baghdad, when a sudden sneeze from the omnipresent sand and dust had jerked
his head a fraction, just far enough for a sniper round to crease his scalp
instead of his skull. He’d called in artillery, and a minute later the sniper
was vaporized. The second time, his rifle had jammed and he had to engage one
of Saddam’s Fedayeen hand-to-hand. The man had tried to gut Hilger with a
Bedouin knife that broke off on Hilger’s flak jacket, and Hilger knocked the
man down with his rifle stock, then beat him to death with the butt,
pulverizing his skull. Both times, the initial elation had given way to a
feeling of wonderment at the miracle of still being alive, and then to a long
period of reflection on the fragility of everything. He’d dodged two bullets,
one of them literally, but those were only the two he knew about. How many
went right by us, every day, without our even knowing?

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Well, he’d just survived his third, and now that he was out of Rain’s
presence, now that the operational exigencies were behind him and he could
acknowledge what had happened, that post-combat giddiness was kicking in. His
legs felt rubbery and his hands were trembling. He’d known Rain by reputation,
and by their one brief encounter in Hong Kong, but this was the first time
he’d really seen him up close and personal. He recognized the type, although
he’d known only a very few: Rain was a killer, a natural predator. The
hesitation, the hand-wringing, even the paralysis that afflicts ordinary men,
it was all absent from what he’d seen in Rain’s eyes.
Hilger had done his share of killing, most recently that idiot Drano in Bali,
but he didn’t consider himself to be in Rain’s class. He knew his own ability
to kill, while formidable, was also something cerebral, something he had
learned. Rain was a different breed. Killing was in him, down deep, and
whatever that quality was, whatever name could be ascribed to it, Hilger
suspected Rain had been born with it. He wasn’t sure if that would be a
blessing or a curse. What he did know was that he wouldn’t want it for
himself. He valued control too highly, and Rain’s control of that killing part
of himself was clearly questionable. He’d been struggling with it in the
restaurant, and it could easily have gone the wrong way.
He crossed the street and saw Demeere, waiting in front of the hotel as though
for an acquaintance or a cab. Vigilant as always. Hilger gave him the
slightest nod as he passed to let him know everything was fine, then took the
elevator to the bar on the twenty-third floor. Demeere arrived a few minutes
later. They sat on the terrace, a sticky breeze rustling the tablecloths, the
sounds of traffic diminished now, pleasant, the lights of the city twinkling
all around them.
“You want something to drink?” Hilger asked. “I could use something.”
“Sure,” Demeere said. They ordered a pair of Bombay Sapphires, doubles, and
when the waiter had departed, Demeere said, “I couldn’t stay with you. He
would have made me, I could feel it.”
Hilger nodded. “You played it right and we knew you’d probably have to let me
go. It worked out.”
“He’s going to do it, then?”
“It looks like it.”
“Can he really manage it in five days?”
Hilger thought again of what he’d seen in Rain’s eyes. “Yeah. I think he can.”
“And then?”
“Then things start to open up for us. And we give him the second target.”
“And then the third?”
Hilger looked at him, and understood that, as usual, Demeere’s intuition was
sound.
“The third target is Rain,” Demeere said.
Hilger nodded. “He’s too dangerous to leave alone. Especially after what he’s
doing for us now.”
The drinks came and they sipped them in silence. The gin was just what Hilger
needed. He could feel it relaxing him, anesthetizing his still slightly
jangled nerves. He’d been planning this for a long time and a lot of things
still had to play out just right before it was over. But they were off to a
good start. It was strange to think how much good it was going to do the
country, and yet everyone would believe it was the work of the country’s
enemies. Well, strong medicine could be like that. It wasn’t the bitter taste
that mattered. It was the beneficial effect.
13
I CHANGED PLANES in Bangkok and slept most of the six hours to Tokyo. I
arrived at Narita at seven-thirty the next morning. An hour and a half later,
I was at Tokyo Station. I emerged from four stories underground into a cold,
sunlit morning. I stood for a few minutes outside the massive red brick façade
of the building, my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder, watching and
listening. Truck engines and car horns. Construction equipment, jackhammers.
Commuters flowing by me in their nameless thousands, squinting against the

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harsh morning light, hunched into the wind, briefcases gripped like life
preservers. The moment I felt it, I realized how I missed the overwhelming
energy of the place, missed it like the perfume of a woman I secretly loved,
who slowly crushed me with her indifference.
I sighed. Tokyo was a sad place for me now, the people connecting me to it
disappearing one by one, like lights going out at night in the windows of an
almost empty building. First, Midori. Then Harry, set up and thrown off the
roof of a building. Then Naomi, the sweet Brazilian Japanese dancer I’d gotten
involved with while hunting a yakuza assassin named Murakami, and who I’d left
in Rio after discovering she’d told the CIA where to find me. And then, only a
year ago, Tatsu, my onetime nemesis and then loyal friend with the
Keisatsuche, the Japanese FBI, to cancer. After that, Tokyo had become for me
just another way station, a meeting venue. And soon, even that would be gone,
when Kanezaki was recalled to headquarters or transferred to some other post
or left for a career in industry. If I came back then, all I would find would
be a graveyard of memories.
I called Kanezaki from a pay phone. “It’s me,” I told him.
“Didn’t take you long.”
“Can you meet?”
“Of course.”
The “of course” was a perfect imitation of Tatsu, right down to the mildly
exasperated tone, which was intended to only ill-conceal the vast reservoirs
of patience needed in the face of so many stupid questions. Hearing Tatsu’s
quirks live on in Kanezaki, whom I knew Tatsu had mentored, and whom he had
perhaps in his mind even adopted as a surrogate after losing his own son,
caused me a pang of sadness, and a small smile.
“How about breakfast?” I asked.
“An early lunch would be better. I’ve got a few things to do.”
I instantly disliked the counteroffer. It would give him time to arrange
things, if…
If what? In the last few years, Kanezaki had a half-dozen opportunities to try
to set me up. He never did, nor, as far as I could tell, did he have any
reason to. I’d dropped in suddenly. He had things to do, like he said.
Still, I didn’t like it. If I hadn’t needed him so much right then, I might
have bailed. Instead, I said, “All right. How about the place we met last
time. When it opens.”
That would be Ben’s café in Takadanobaba, at eleven-thirty. A nice,
out-of-the-way, neighborhood kind of place that served fresh bagels, quiche,
and excellent coffee. I knew the area well. I’d get there early for
countersurveillance. Just in case.
“I’ll see you there,” he said, and clicked off.
I took the Yamanote line to Takadanobaba and got to Ben’s a little less than
two hours early. I set up just past the edge of the window in a convenience
store across and slightly down from the café, my eyes on the street. Japanese
convenience stores don’t mind their magazines being used as a lending library,
and I took full advantage.
Nothing set off my radar, and Kanezaki showed right on time. He glanced back
through the store window as he went by, doubtless seeing me in the corner but
giving no sign of it.
Shit, I thought. I don’t like getting nailed, even by a probable friendly. I
watched to make sure he was alone, then drifted out of the store and caught
him as he went into Ben’s.
“Hey,” I said, coming up behind him.
He turned without any sign of surprise. “Hey.”
“You saw me in the convenience store.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, it was where I would have set up, too. But I didn’t figure
you were one for the girlie magazines.”
“What else do people read when they’re loitering like that?” I said, still
feeling a little defensive. “I was just being another middle-aged pervert.
Blending.”

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“I think you were enjoying your work.”
I realized that, not for the first time, I was underestimating this kid, this
young man, rather, who was more seasoned every time I saw him. He was getting
smarter, and I needed to get smarter about it. He knew my tactics now, knew
that I wouldn’t be waiting where I said I’d be. And he was becoming
sufficiently tactical himself to know where I’d probably be, instead. I had to
stop playing him as though he was still a beginner. He wasn’t, and hadn’t been
for a long time.
I smiled. “Maybe a little. I was there for two hours. It wouldn’t have gone by
as fast with Car and Driver.”
We shook hands, and I looked him over. I nodded in approval of what I saw: a
slim, thirtysomething Japanese American with the kind of serious eyes you get
from realizing the world isn’t the innocent place you once imagined it to be,
and from suspecting that what you do makes you complicit.
Over sandwiches and coffee, using English and keeping my voice low so as not
to be overheard by the other patrons, I briefed him on everything that had
happened with Hilger and Dox. I explained that there were three hits, but told
him I didn’t yet have any specifics. Given Jannick’s CIA backing, I judged any
mention of him too risky. The CIA connection might have been relevant to
Kanezaki, for reasons I couldn’t yet understand. He might have felt obligated
to warn Jannick, or to otherwise prevent me from carrying out the hit. If
protecting Jannick was important enough to Kanezaki, telling him might even
have been dangerous. If someone wants to get to you, and he knows who your
target is, he doesn’t have to find you. He just has to find your target, and
wait for you to show up.
When I was done, he said, “I’m sorry to hear about all this.”
I looked at him. “Sorry isn’t really what matters here. What matters is what
you’re going to do about it.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
I felt a flush of irritation. “I expect you to help Dox.”
“I don’t really know how much I can.”
“How many jobs has he done for you? Three? Four?”
“We’ve worked together. But that doesn’t mean…”
“Cut the bullshit,” I said, gripping the sides of the table and leaning
forward. “He’s in trouble now, bad trouble, what are you going to do, abandon
him?”
I realized I was half out of my seat. The words themselves were fueling my
rage. It was the iceman, wanting a reason to hurt someone, anyone, for Dox.
Easy, I thought. Easy. I exhaled sharply and slowly sat back down. I let go of
the table and flexed my hands.
Kanezaki was as quiet as a man who turns a corner to find himself face-to-face
with a growling attack dog. If he hadn’t been sitting, he would have been
backing up.
After a moment, he said, “Dox is a good man. I’m grateful to him
professionally and I like him personally. But he’s a contractor. That’s his
choice.”
I looked at him, still trying to get a grip on myself. I thought about telling
him it was fine, he could do anything he wanted. As long as he understood that
if Dox died, so would he.
I shook my head. What was I thinking? Threats were the way I had played things
when I was young and stupid. I was lucky to have lived long enough to find
more effective means of persuasion. And the kind of help I needed here wasn’t
something I could extort.
Back off, I thought, as though actually talking to someone inside me. Back
off.
“Look,” he said, his hands up, palms forward, “I’m not saying I won’t help.
Just that you’re still on the hook for the toys I got you guys last year.”
He was referring to a tranquilizer gun and some considerably more lethal
hardware he had procured for Dox and me in Tokyo. We had used it all to
interrupt a drug deal in Wajima and touch off a small war between the Japanese

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yakuza and the Chinese triads. The war had forced a yakuza enemy of mine,
Yamaoto, into the open, finally giving me the opportunity to kill him.
But his comment calmed me down. I realized, as I should have earlier, that his
protestations weren’t heartfelt. They were haggling. Irritating, yes, but not
a bad sign, either.
“‘On the hook’?” I asked. “Why do you think I just told you about Hilger? You
mean knowing what he’s up to isn’t valuable to you? All right, next time I
won’t bother you with the information.”
He sighed. “It’s not valuable, really, not without more. Maybe if I knew who
the targets were, that would be something. But without knowing who he’s
after…?” He finished the sentence by turning his palms up to the ceiling, then
dropping his hands back to the table.
Yeah, haggling, like I thought. But at least we were making progress.
“Like I said, I’m waiting on that information,” I told him. “As soon as I have
it, I’ll let you know.”
“I have your word on that?”
Well, his former naiveté hadn’t been totally eradicated. I’d spent most of my
life killing people for a living. Did he think I was going to lose sleep over
a lie?
“You have my word,” I told him. “And then we’ll be square?”
“We’ll be up to date. But if you want something else from me, you’ll have to
do something in return.”
Ah, the moment of truth, I thought. At last.
“Yeah?” I said. “Who?”
“Don’t you mean what?”
“I already know what.”
He nodded, conceding the point. “Even if you get Dox out of this, you’re going
to take out Hilger, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know. The only thing that worries me is how patient you are. Look how
long you waited to do Yamaoto.”
“I don’t know why you think that was me. From what I read, he got shot, then
died in the hospital of a cardiac arrest.”
“Now who’s bullshitting? I know Dox shot him. It was a 7.62 round, same as the
rifle I procured for you. And you gave him the heart attack. Look, Tatsu and I
were working together more closely than you know. He told me a lot.”
He might have been bluffing. But the relationship with Tatsu was true, I knew.
“Tatsu told me you were doing something together,” I said.
He nodded. “Call it unofficial counterpart relations.”
“Is that what killing Hilger is about?”
“It’s part of it.”
“Why do you want him dead?”
“When did why start mattering to you?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t.”
“Good. You want my help with Dox? Help me with Hilger. Don’t wait when you
find him. As soon as you have the shot, take it.”
“All right,” I said. “It sounds like we’re on the same page. You want me to
take out Hilger, and I want to find him. Hard to do one without the other.”
“Good,” he said again, nodding. “Now tell me what you need.”
14
FROM TOKYO, I flew to Los Angeles, arriving on a cool, clear winter morning.
San Francisco would have been more convenient, but Hilger knew I was coming
and I didn’t want to do anything that would help him anticipate me. It was bad
enough he knew I’d be tracking Jannick; I wasn’t going to offer up an
additional datapoint unless I had no choice.
Before leaving, I’d gone to an Internet café and uploaded the photos of Mr.
Blond to Kanezaki. It wouldn’t be much to go on, but Mr. Blond and Hilger must
have both applied for Vietnamese visas in the last seventy-two hours. That
might be enough for Kanezaki to cross-reference. If it wasn’t, I’d just have
to get him more information. I included Dox’s mobile number in the upload—the

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one Hilger was using now. Probably Hilger was keeping the phone off out of
fear that I might have some means to triangulate on the signal, but it was
still worth trying.
I might have given Kanezaki the URL of the compromised bulletin board, too.
Maybe he could tell me where it was being accessed. But I decided to hold off
on that. Even if Kanezaki had the technical means, and I wasn’t sure he did, I
doubted Hilger would be sloppy enough to access the site from anywhere that
would reveal his actual position. And if Kanezaki managed to hack the site
itself, he’d be able to read my communications with Hilger, including the ones
about Jannick. I didn’t want to take that chance for so little probable gain.
At least, not yet.
I had also checked the bulletin board I used with Dox, now compromised, of
course, by Hilger. Hilger had uploaded a thorough dossier on Jannick: photos,
home and work addresses, make and model of car, everything. I looked at the
photos for a while. They had all been taken from public sources: his Stanford
yearbook photo, company bios, some newspaper clippings. He was blond, with a
round face, rectangular rimless glasses, and an uncertain smile balanced by a
determination in his eyes. No surveillance photos. Apparently, Hilger had
never gotten that close.
The home address was Christopher Lane; work, East Bayshore Road, both in Palo
Alto. I’d never been to the town, but of course knew of it: birthplace of
Hewlett-Packard and other technology giants; home of Stanford University; once
a sleepy community of apricot groves, now the world’s foremost technology
center, the heart of Silicon Valley itself.
At LAX, I rented a Mercedes E500 with a navigation system. With the extra
miles I was going to be driving, the car would run me about two thousand
dollars, but it was worth it. I didn’t know how much skulking around would be
required before I figured out how to get close to Jannick, but there was a lot
of money in Palo Alto and I expected the Mercedes and BMW quotient to be high.
The locals, and local law enforcement, would take a lot less interest in a
sixty-thousand-dollar car parked at the curb than they would in a Buick.
I stopped at a sporting goods store, where I equipped myself with a three-inch
Benchmade folding knife. Tossing such quality knives every time I got on a
plane was definitely an expensive habit, but it beat not having something
sharp at hand when you needed it. Next, a Cingular shop, where I picked up an
Apple iPhone. The mobile I had been using with Dox was now compromised, of
course, and I needed something new and therefore sterile. The iPhone had a
huge screen that made it useful for Internet access—not as versatile as a
laptop, true, but it was a lot more portable and was always connected, too.
I drove north on Interstate 5 with the cruise control set for
seventy-two—close enough to the seventy-mile-an-hour speed limit to ensure I
wasn’t risking a ticket; just enough over the limit to look normal. Plenty of
cars passed me at eighty or better, and I silently thanked them for drawing
off any prowling Highway Patrol cars and making me uninteresting by
comparison.
I reminded myself of who I was, what I was doing here—the story I would use if
anything went awry and I wound up facing questions from someone, a neighbor, a
hotel clerk, a cop. Cover for action, the American spy agencies call it. It’s
the ostensible reason you have prepared in case you’re caught doing something
you’re not supposed to. A fairly intuitive concept, actually, as anyone who’s
ever had an affair can tell you. When one of your colleagues shows up
unexpectedly during your lunchtime assignation at your favorite out-of-the-way
restaurant and says, “Jim! What a surprise to see you here. And who’s your
lovely companion?” you’d better have a prefabricated explanation, or your only
response is likely be the time-honored slow suicide of “Uh, uh, uh…” or
perhaps a variation of a “This isn’t what it looks like” or an “I can explain
this,” both of which are universally understood to be confessions of full
guilt.
The concept is easy, but effective execution is difficult. It requires
imagination, a talent for acting, and experience. At this point, for me, the

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operation is second nature. I imagined myself as who I was: Taro Yamada,
recently divorced, easing the pain of separation with a rambling holiday on
America’s West Coast. The camera I had with me would support the story, and I
made sure to snap pictures of a few vistas along the way. It was a persona I’d
used before, and I knew the details well, even the name of my divorced wife,
and our grown daughter, the location of my apartment building in Tokyo, the
office where I worked as an executive in one of the big electronics concerns.
None of it was well backstopped, but it didn’t need to be. The popular
American perception of Japan today is of a peaceful people, craving luxury
brands, snapping pictures ceaselessly, polite, prosperous, deferential,
supportive of America’s war on terror. Nothing about my face or behavior would
arouse any concerns. These days, it was the dark, bearded, Abdullah-looking
types who got all the attention, never mind the protests of the antiprofiling
crowd. And even if anyone wanted to check up on some of the details of my
story, both the country and the language are opaque enough to throw off and
eventually frustrate all but the most ardent and expert hunters.
If there had been time, I would have taken the Pacific Coast Highway,
something I’d always wanted to do. But there wasn’t, so I endured a fairly
monotonous drive, instead. I passed flat expanses of farmland; scrub grass
blackened by wildfires; a mile-long patch of earth trod to mud by the hooves
of thousands of cows.
One place struck me: the San Luis reservoir, just west of I-5 along a winding
stretch of Route 152. Amid the undifferentiated, rolling hills and gnarled,
brooding trees, the sudden expanse of sparkling cobalt startled me. I drove
along it for miles, watching it unfold on my left, fascinated by this
improbable inland sea. As I came to its end and 152 began to curve away, I
pulled over and got out.
The air smelled good, moist from the reservoir, cool and rich. I walked the
hundred or so yards down to the water, my feet crunching in the gravel. A few
cars whooshed by behind and then above me, but otherwise the area was utterly
quiet.
The water sat within a basin of undulating stone walls stretching away for
miles. Despite the afternoon sun it was cold down at the edge, and a sharp
wind whistled in the crags of rock. The walls were scarred with horizontal
grooves, nature’s own graffiti, carved across the millennia by the ceaseless
pressure of water and wind. I stood and watched, hidden now from the road,
from everything behind me.
“I don’t know who he is,” I said aloud after a few minutes. “But it’s him or
my friend. I don’t have a choice. You don’t like it? Well, what would you do?
Let Dox die, instead?”
I waited. But of course there was nothing. Just the coruscating sunlight and
the caustic wind.
“Why do I even ask?” I said, shaking my head. “You’re not there. You never
were.”
I turned and went back to the road.
I arrived in Palo Alto at a little before four. The first thing I did was go
to a military-surplus store in nearby Mountain View, where I bought a down
parka with a hood and a pair of leather gloves. It was fifty-five degrees
outside, according to the Mercedes’ digital readout, so the parka would be a
little excessive. But its bulk would conceal my body type, and its hood would
obscure my face. The gloves I would need later.
Next, I drove to Jannick’s house. Christopher Lane was a long, narrow hill
ending in a cul-de-sac ringed by massive new mansions with equally massive
yards and impressive views of the Palo Alto hills. I didn’t see anyone about,
but I was glad I was driving the Mercedes. It fit right into the neighborhood.
The house was close to the bottom of the hill. It was an older, two-story
building, white painted clapboard with solar panels on the roof. No cars in
the driveway. Maybe no one was home; maybe they parked in the garage. No way
to know at the moment. It was a weekday and I expected Jannick to be at the
office regardless.

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I went past slowly, looking for a place I could set up. There was a gravel
turnout on the right side of the road, about fifty yards down from his house.
I could wait there and pick him up coming and going, but the spot would enable
me only to see him, not to act. Worse, if I parked there, Jannick would go
right past the driver’s side of my car. Even if he were as oblivious to
personal security as Hilger claimed, he might see my face, and he would
certainly make the Mercedes.
I drove down to the end of the street. Christopher ended on Old Page Mill
Road, a narrow, sleepy affair paralleled by a blacktopped, four-lane artery
called Page Mill Road. I gathered the “old” version was what the locals relied
on until the town grew and the small road was overtaken by the need for
something wider and faster. I made a left on what I decided to think of as OPM
and drove slowly north. A hundred yards up the street, just south of another
small road called Gerth Lane, there was a dirt turnout. I did a U-turn into it
and stopped, facing Christopher. I looked around and decided I liked the spot.
I wasn’t in front of a house, so no one was likely to pay me much attention.
And I had a good view of Christopher where it let out onto OPM. Jannick
couldn’t come and go without my seeing him, and I was far enough away so that
he was unlikely to see me, or to care particularly if he did.
A pack of bicyclists shot past me on Page Mill. They were all helmeted, sleek
in gaudy racing suits, and I had a feeling their machines cost thousands of
dollars apiece. They reminded me of hiking clubs in Japan, whose members
wouldn’t consider a stroll even on a gentle grassy hillside without hiking
boots, walking sticks, and enough North Face paraphernalia to make a seasoned
alpinist blush. Well, I could see why biking would be popular around here. I
understood the weather was wonderful most of the year, although just now it
was overcast, and the hills were beautiful enough.
I was tired, but there was only about an hour of daylight left and I wanted to
reconnoiter more before it got dark. I plugged Jannick’s office address into
the nav system and drove there so I could get a feel for his likely route. It
was pretty direct: mostly a straight shot north on Page Mill Road, five miles
in all. There were no deserted stretches anywhere along the way. On the
contrary, the route was heavily trafficked. Page Mill had four lanes for cars,
several miles of bike lanes, sidewalks, and a mix of office buildings that
gave way to residences farther north. I could follow him easily enough in the
traffic, but unless he surprised me by veering off and stopping somewhere
deserted, I saw no locations that would serve for action.
East Bayshore turned out to be an access road paralleling Route 101, one of
the main arteries between the Bay Area and southern California. I parked on a
perpendicular street called Embarcadero, across from a Chinese restaurant
named Ming’s. Call me paranoid—I’d just take it as a compliment, anyway—but I
didn’t want to run even the smallest risk that the car I was driving, or its
license plate, might be seen near Jannick’s office, whether by an employee or
a camera or both.
I slipped on the parka, pulled up the hood, and got out. I used the short walk
to get into character. Thinking in Japanese, I reminded myself that I was
Yamada again, altering certain details of the legend to fit the current
circumstances. This time, I was being transferred to Silicon Valley by my
employer, Matsushita Electric Industrial in Osaka, and was in town now to find
a house and take care of school arrangements and otherwise prepare for the
family move. I had a business card I could provide in case anyone asked for
it, complete with a number that would be answered by a suitably
incomprehensible Japanese message on the voice-mail system I continued to
maintain back in Japan. My wife would need office space after our move for her
work as a freelance translator. This look like a good place, and so close to
highway, too…what kind companies work here? It wasn’t very cold, so the parka
was a little odd, sure, but Americans are tolerant of foreigners and their
idiosyncrasies. Look at how much they put up with in that movie Borat.
Jannick’s building was three down on East Bayshore, on the right side of the
road. I strolled past the driveway, noting that it was shared by several

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office buildings, each an unremarkable, two-story glass-and-concrete box. From
the size of the structures, I gathered Jannick was renting or subletting
space. That, or DET was a much bigger company than its website suggested. I
didn’t like all the windows. If Hilger wanted me dead, he could have a sniper
waiting in one of the buildings, knowing I would show up here while tracking
Jannick. Or someone shooting photos instead of bullets, compiling evidence of
my guilt, evidence they’d use for blackmail later. But I didn’t have a choice.
I kept going, my scalp prickling from the feeling of exposure to all those
ominous windows.
I walked through the parking lot looking for Jannick’s car, according to
Hilger’s dossier, a black Volvo S80. I didn’t see it. I wondered if he was out
at a meeting. Or if he’d left early for the day and I’d missed him on his way
home. Or if he was traveling somewhere. In my experience, every predictable
pattern you’ve analyzed goes to hell the moment you go operational.
Imagination, backup plans, and an ability to improvise are the only
countermeasures.
I thought about calling him from a pay phone, but didn’t like the idea. I
might come away with a better understanding of where he was, or even if he was
in town right now, but I’d have to engage him or someone else with a story,
too, leaving another potential piece of evidence for later. I decided to wait
until a call would likely be more valuable.
I headed toward Jannick’s building. As I got closer to the entrance, I saw
that the windows next to the entrance doors were coated with some reflective
material. There was a sign stuck to the window. It was too far for me to read
from this distance, but I had a feeling it warned of CCTV monitoring. A
security camera there, rather than in the parking lot, made sense. It was the
building and what was inside it they’d want to secure. They didn’t care about
employees’ cars.
I turned and walked away, considering. With a camera, I couldn’t get to him in
or directly in front of the building. That still left the parking lot. The
problem was, to make a death look natural, you need some temporary control
over the environment. If all that was required was walking up to Jannick and
shooting him, I could have done it almost anywhere, the only real concern
being escape. But I was going to need a few minutes alone with him. The
parking lot wasn’t great for that.
I kept walking. The light was fading from the sky, and it wasn’t yet five
o’clock. At this time of year, almost no one left work before nightfall. In
the dark, I might be able to drag him behind his car, depending on where he
was parked. But unless it were especially late and deserted, there was a
worrisome chance that the person whose car was parked next to us might choose
just that moment to head home, too. Plus, even the relatively clueless tend to
be somewhat vigilant in parking lots at night. I could overcome that with
Jannick, but if there were other people in the area, they’d likely be more
watchful than I wanted.
Morning offered the opposite range of risks and benefits. On the one hand,
people arriving at work are distracted by thoughts of the morning meeting, the
day’s tasks, what messages might be waiting for them. And parking lots aren’t
threatening in the morning, so no one pays any attention to their surroundings
in them, anyway. But unless Jannick showed up for work very early indeed, it
was hard to see how I could count on the privacy I needed. And then there were
all the windows of all the buildings…even aside from the possibility of one of
Hilger’s men lurking behind one of them, if just one person happened to be
looking out at the parking lot at the wrong moment, there would be an
eyewitness to the decidedly unnatural manner of Jannick’s demise. Hilger and I
hadn’t discussed what would happen if Jannick’s death was a success but its
manner a failure. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to take the chance.
I walked another mile or so down East Bayshore, getting a feel for the area,
its rhythms and rituals, what fit in and what might seem subtly out of place.
My sense was that the neighborhood was transitional—office buildings on the
south end, a new IKEA and shopping mall at the other, a trailer park and

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long-term storage facilities in between. Blending wasn’t the problem here. The
problem was access, and control.
I thought about using light disguise to enter Jannick’s building. There might
be opportunities inside—a restroom, a fitness facility, a closet. Somewhere
Jannick’s guard would be down and I could hold him long enough to do things
the way they needed to be done. But I hated to create a connection between
myself and the place where he worked, especially if that’s where he was going
to die.
I walked back to the Mercedes, cutting once again through the parking lot on
the way. Jannick’s car still wasn’t there. It was dark now, but there was a
lot of light from streetlamps. I was going to have to find a better place.
I drove back to Jannick’s house. Still no car. Then back and forth again. I
used slightly different routes each time, and after five such trips, I started
to feel I had a reasonably good feel for the layout of the streets, the
patterns of traffic. Within that layout and those patterns, there would be
possibilities. There always were. Sometimes I recognized them immediately;
sometimes I had to sleep on it first, and let my subconscious work the
problem.
Sleep. I needed to get up early tomorrow to make sure I could catch Jannick
before he left for work. And the time zone shifts were getting to me. It was
time to call it a day.
I stopped at a phone booth in a gas station and checked the Yellow Pages,
where I found a hotel called the Stanford Park. Menlo Park, the next town
over. I called and was glad to hear they had a vacancy, a king room with a
fireplace. No smoking, the clerk said apologetically, perhaps in response to
the Japanese accent I was using. No problem, I assured him. No smoking was
fine. It was only available for two nights? That would be fine, too. I didn’t
plan to be in town any longer than that.
I purged the car nav system before checking into the hotel, then had an
excellent dinner at a place called Café Borrone, about a mile down the road:
salad, lasagna, and a wonderful Napa Valley Cabernet called Emilio’s Terrace,
which, as globalization would have it, I had discovered a year earlier in
Bangkok. The restaurant itself was a lively place, a bigger, smoke-free,
California version of some of the Left Bank cafés I liked. There was a huge
independent bookstore next to it, Kepler’s, and after dinner I strolled among
its offerings for a while, watching the people, absorbing details. Everyone
looked so prosperous and satisfied and well intentioned. I felt like some
secret foreign matter among them, a virus in the system, a germ in an
operating room.
I asked one of the employees, a pretty woman named Cynthia, about Internet
access. She directed me to the public library, less than a quarter mile away.
I strolled over and checked the bulletin boards. Nothing.
The last thing I did before falling into an exhausted sleep was fire up my old
cell phone and check its voice-mail account. There was a message from Delilah.
“Don’t push me away like this,” she said. “Call me, please.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had to stay focused. I had to be who I always was.
15
I GOT UP at five o’clock the next morning, showered, shaved, fueled up on eggs
and coffee in the hotel’s restaurant, and went out. Unlikely that Jannick, or
anyone else, would get to work this early, but still I drove past his parking
lot to start with. It was deserted. Next, I stopped at a Starbucks in the
shopping center at the other end of East Bayshore. I ordered a Venti Latte,
wondering why they couldn’t just call the damn thing a large, and dumped the
contents in a drain a little ways from the store. It was the cup I needed:
first, because I’d noticed that just about everyone in Palo Alto walked around
attached to a Starbucks coffee, and carrying one of my own would make me look
natural. Second, and more important, I didn’t know how long I might have to
wait for Jannick, and although no one was likely to pay attention to a quietly
parked Mercedes, they might be discomfited by the sight of a man repeatedly
stepping out of it to urinate on the curb.

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I drove by Jannick’s house. There was still no car in front, but my guess was
that it was in the garage. The sun was just coming up, and the house was dark.
I drove down to OPM and parked in my spot. I couldn’t see his house from here,
but I’d catch him when he pulled onto Page Mill.
While I waited, listening to a woman named Alisa Clancy on a radio show called
Morning Cup of Jazz, I wondered who Jannick really was. A guy with an aptitude
for technology? And where did his ambition come from? Did he miss his home in
the Netherlands, or was this place, with its yoga-supple people and clean and
prosperous streets, his home now?
One thing I didn’t ask, though nor could I deny it, was whether he had a
family. Of course he did. The house was too big, and too suburban, for anyone
to live in it alone. And his car, a Volvo S80, had kids written all over it.
But the less I knew about all that, the better. It’s one thing to recognize
something intellectually. It’s quite another to see it—no, watch it—with your
own eyes. The last time I’d gotten too close to the family of a target, in
Manila, I’d frozen and damn near died. In unguarded moments, I still thought
of the little boy whose father I’d taken. I wasn’t going to go through that
again.
I waited. No one disturbed me. I had to leave the engine off because if the
car were running it might have attracted attention. The interior got cold, but
the parka helped. The Venti cup proved handy.
At just past seven-thirty, someone on a bicycle came down Christopher and made
a left onto OPM. He was wearing a white helmet and a fluorescent-yellow
windbreaker, something designed both for warmth and to be visible to cars. I
eased down in the seat a bit and watched through the windshield, thinking it
was someone out for his morning exercise. But as he got closer, I realized
Christ, that might be him. I’d been so fixated on the Volvo I was waiting for
that it took me a moment to adjust. He passed me, not even giving the Mercedes
a second look. I was going only on a bunch of out-of-date photos, but the
shape of the face, the glasses…I was pretty sure it was Jannick.
Shit, the bike changed everything. Was this just exercise, or was it his
commute? If the latter, I didn’t know what route he might take, and I couldn’t
tail him effectively in a car even if I did.
I thought for a moment. Follow him down OPM? I didn’t like the idea. The road
was really nothing but an old jug handle to Page Mill. It wasn’t closed to
cars, but there was no reason a car would use it. Following him directly would
be too conspicuous.
I fired up the Mercedes and cut left on Page Mill, paralleling OPM. I pushed
it up to fifty, wanting to go faster but holding back because of the risk of a
cop. Up ahead was a turnoff on Deer Creek Road; the light was red and I had to
wait for it. Come on, come on, I thought. I wanted to get ahead of him before
he came out on Page Mill so I could get another look.
The light changed and I shot forward. I got to the other end of the jug handle
just in time to see the bicyclist pull out onto a bike lane on the other side
of Page Mill. A hundred yards ahead was another intersection and another
traffic light. Good, I thought. We’ll both have to stop and I’ll get another
look.
I was half right. While I was stopped at the light, the bicyclist made a left
onto the bike path on Junípero Serra. Shit.
It was a painfully long light. When the left turn signal finally changed to
green, I cut into the turning lane and made a left onto Junípero Serra. A
minute later, I’d caught up to him. I glanced over as I passed, but again I
couldn’t be totally sure.
I pulled ahead of him, wondering whether he was going to the Stanford campus.
But instead, he made a right. Damn. I did a U-turn and backtracked to where
he’d turned off, a road called Stanford Avenue. I made a left and drove
forward but didn’t see him. There were a number of smaller, residential
streets snaking off on both sides. Unless I got lucky, for the moment I had
probably lost him.
I thought for a moment. Maybe he was on his way to work. He avoided Page Mill

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because it was a busy road and farther north it had no bike lane. He was
taking a more roundabout route, both for safety and for the exercise.
It felt right. I got back onto Junípero Serra, then Page Mill, and went
straight to his office. There were a few cars in the parking lot now—enough to
find concealment, not so many that I had to worry about too many people seeing
and possibly remembering the Mercedes. I pulled in next to a Lexus SUV,
putting it between me and the parking lot entrance, cut the engine, and
waited.
Ten minutes later, the bicyclist pulled into the parking lot and rode straight
to Jannick’s building. Bingo.
I watched him carry the bike inside, then I drove down to the shopping center
at the other end of East Bayshore. Now was the time for a call. From a pay
phone, I dialed his office. One ring, two, then a voice: “Jan Jannick.”
“Ah, sorry…wrong number,” I mumbled, and hung up. I wiped down the pay phone
and went back to the car.
I drove slowly back in the direction of his house, thinking. The office was no
good. The house would be difficult at best. But he was on a bike…. That would
create opportunities I hadn’t considered before.
I thought about what I knew. Two locations, home and work, neither of them
suitable. An unknown route in between. I considered buying a bicycle so I
could follow him more closely and see what opportunities developed, but it
felt too improvised, too uncertain. What I needed was a choke point. A place I
could anticipate him, a place I could prepare and control.
I thought about OPM again. In a car you wouldn’t bother; it would just be a
slower alternative to the four lanes of Page Mill right next to it. But on a
bike it would represent a shortcut. And not just theoretically: Jannick had
used it this morning. There was at least a decent chance he would use it again
on the way home.
I went back to OPM. I’d been on it earlier, of course, but I wanted to look
again, this time through the prism of newly acquired information about how
Jannick commuted to work.
I liked what I saw. The road consisted of two narrow lanes, and was obviously
in disuse. Grass on either side had grown onto the shoulder, and scattered
leaves that would ordinarily be swept aside by passing automobile traffic
covered much of the surface. The trees crowding both sides had been pruned
back to prevent dead branches from falling into the road, and the branches
were now piled up here and there in large deadfalls. On the east side were
trees and scrub that grew denser as the road curved away from Page Mill, until
after about a half-mile the big artery was impossible to see and even the
sounds of its automobile traffic had faded almost entirely. On the west side,
there was a chain-link fence with signs warning, STANFORD UNIVERSITY ACADEMIC
RESERVE, NO TRESPASSING. Beyond the chain-link fence, a series of empty,
rolling hills, apparently the property upon which Stanford didn’t want
passersby to intrude.
Where the road connected with Page Mill, cars could go right, but were
prohibited from turning left at rush hour—yet another reason a driver would be
unlikely to bother coming this way. But the west side of the road tapered
smoothly off into a bike trail that ran along Page Mill and then curved left
onto Junípero Serra. Jannick’s route. I looked up, and as if to prove my
point, two women on bicycles came down the Page Mill bike path and rode past
me. I nodded to myself. The place felt right. Now I just had to find a way to
make it work.
I walked back in the direction I’d come from, dead leaves crunching beneath my
feet. There was a construction site between OPM and Page Mill, accessible by a
short bridge. I walked over and saw that the bridge ran over a creek that
curved away under OPM and into the Stanford lands beyond. I walked down the
embankment and looked back, and damned if I wasn’t invisible from the road.
Very nice indeed.
Under the bridge, there was a concrete wall marred with graffiti. The paint
looked old, though, and in some places was only a few inches above the water

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line. I gathered this place was used by kids in the summer, when the nights
would be warmer, the water lower or nonexistent, the area more inviting for a
shared joint and adolescent fumblings or a bit of juvenile vandalism.
I walked back up to the bridge and then to the construction site. It was
surrounded by a chain-link fence and full of equipment, but there were no
workers and the site felt as disused as the road itself. A series of signs on
the fence warned, CAUTION: GAS PIPELINE STATION 3, CITY OF PALO ALTO. In the
shadows of the trees and the utter quiet, the sign and the station felt like
relics, future artifacts to be encountered and puzzled over by whatever
generations might discover this place long after today’s drama was done.
I spent another hour walking the road, logging details, identifying backup
routes, refining the plan. Then I went back to the car. It was time to go
shopping.
At a place called the International Spy Shop in San Francisco, I bought a pair
of Yukon Viking Pro 2x24 night-vision binoculars. At an REI sporting goods
store in Mountain View, I picked up head-to-toe black Under Armour running
gear—jacket, leggings, gloves; a black fleece cap; a large black fanny pack;
and a roll of black photographer’s tape. At a gun range called Reed’s in Santa
Clara, I acquired a SureFire M6 Guardian flashlight—less than eight inches
long, 2.5 inches in diameter, and five hundred lumens. Finally, at a Nordstrom
in a Palo Alto shopping center, I purchased a pair of Nike running shoes.
I finished at a little past three in the afternoon and, after a quick soup and
sandwich at a restaurant in the shopping center, went back to the Stanford
Park. I closed the drapes, turned off the lights, and checked the equipment.
The night-vision binoculars illuminated everything. And the SureFire was
absolutely blinding. Its light was so white and bright that even when the beam
was pointed away from me, I had to squint to look at it.
I put black photographer’s tape over the reflective surfaces of the Under
Armour gear and the running shoes, checking it all by laying it on the bed in
the dark and hitting it with the flashlight from various angles. No
reflections. Then I suited up, putting the binoculars and the flashlight into
the fanny pack and slipping the parka over the whole ensemble.
I drove back to Jannick’s office and parked in the Ming’s parking lot so I was
facing Embarcadero and East Bayshore. Unless Jannick made a right on East
Bayshore, which would take him in the opposite direction of his house and
which was a different route than the one he’d arrived by this morning, he
would pass me on his way home. But if I missed him tonight, I could always get
a little more aggressive tomorrow. In fact, it was possible I’d missed him
already, that he had already headed home. But I doubted it. It was only four
o’clock, earlier than regular people could get off work. As for people like
Jannick, with the drive and passion to start their own companies, they tend
not to quit until much later. I was less concerned that he’d gone home early
than I was that he might keep me waiting past midnight. But either way, again,
if things didn’t work today, there was always tomorrow.
Just before dark, it started to rain. That might have been good news or it
might have been bad. Good, because it would make the road slippery. Bad,
because maybe Jannick’s wife would pick him up, or he’d get a ride home from a
colleague, or otherwise leave his bike at the office. But my guess was, the
weather worked to my favor. There was the windbreaker he was wearing against
the cold this morning, for one thing; it would do the trick in the rain, too.
And there was the determination in the personality type of an entrepreneur,
for another. Yeah, something told me Jannick wasn’t someone to be dissuaded by
a little precipitation. The rain felt like a good omen.
It was. At just past seven-thirty, the end of a twelve-hour day, I saw the
fluorescent-yellow windbreaker and white helmet coming toward me. I checked
through the night-vision binoculars to confirm. No question, it was him.
He made a right on Embarcadero. By the time I got out of the parking lot and
through the light, he was too far ahead of me to see. But it was a safe bet he
had stayed on Embarcadero, the same route he had used this morning. I peeled
off onto the exit ramp to 101 and Page Mill. Between the car and the shorter

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route, I estimated I’d get to OPM ten minutes ahead of him.
I parked in an office park just north of the corner of Page Mill and Junípero
Serra. I pulled on the hat and the gloves, strapped on the fanny pack, and got
out. I walked for a minute, but as soon as I was clear of the car, and anyone
who might have seen me leave it, I started jogging. The rain on my face was
cold, and my breath fogged in the chill air, but I felt warm and insulated in
the Under Armour. My heart was beating hard, not from exertion.
I got to the construction site and was pleased to find the area exceptionally
dark. I could hear the patter of the rain on the road and in the creek, the
white noise of it quieting the area, masking noises and reducing the distance
sound could travel. I used the night-vision binoculars to scope out the road,
the site, and the underside of the bridge. I was alone. I still had to be
careful about an evening dog walker, or a determined jogger, or another
commuting bicyclist, but overall the chances that I would have this little
stretch of road to myself for the necessary moments, and that I would remain
unobserved even if someone happened along, were as good as I could hope.
I set up next to the bridge by the construction site, keeping low and scanning
the area through the binoculars. Everything was illuminated beautifully. The
fanny pack was open, and the flashlight, like the binoculars, was getting wet,
but the equipment was top quality and waterproof. I wasn’t concerned.
Five minutes of waiting and scanning. And then I saw him, coming toward me on
the bike path along Page Mill. I could make out his face perfectly through the
night-vision magnification, all the way down to the droplets of water on his
glasses. A headlight on the front of the bike showed up in the viewfinder like
a glowing yellow flare.
I felt a hot rush of adrenaline through my gut, and my heart started kicking
harder. I breathed in and out deeply several times and did one last scan of
the area. All clear.
I dropped the binoculars into the fanny pack, pulled out the SureFire, and
walked into the middle of the road. Without the night vision, I couldn’t see
Jannick himself, but his headlight shone like a beacon a hundred fifty yards
out. One hundred. Fifty.
He slowed slightly as the bike path fed onto OPM, but he was still moving at
what I guessed was close to fifteen miles an hour. More than fast enough.
Thirty yards now. I raised the SureFire to my shoulder. I closed one eye to
protect it from the glare and preserve my night vision, and squinted with the
other. Twenty. Ten.
Just before the forward edge of his headlight illumination reached my
position, I pressed down on the flashlight’s tailcap switch. Five hundred
lumens hit him in the face, as momentarily bright and white as a bolt of
lightning. I heard a cry of pain and surprise.
He must have instinctively hit the brakes, as I had hoped. I heard the tires
skidding on the wet leaves and leaped out of the way. The headlight weaved
crazily as Jannick fought to control the bike. But he was too startled, and
too blinded. And the road was too wet. For an instant, the headlight gyrations
grew wilder. Then the bike went over and Jannick hit the pavement.
I dropped the SureFire into the fanny pack next to the binoculars and zipped
the pouch shut. I looked around, confirming once more that we were alone.
“Are you all right?” I asked, walking over. He was on his hands and knees,
spitting out blood, trying to get up.
He moaned, sounding as though the wind had been knocked out of him.
I walked closer, my heart hammering. “Don’t try to move,” I said. “You might
be hurt.”
He started to say something back. I didn’t hear what. I stepped over him and
sat down hard on his back. He grunted and collapsed to the ground. I planted
my feet solidly along either side of his head, reached with both gloved hands
under his chin, and arched savagely back. His neck snapped with the sound of a
thick piece of dry firewood and his body spasmed under me.
I stood and immediately moved back to the bridge, where I had some
concealment. I took out the binoculars again and scanned the area. No one.

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Then I examined the tableau before me. Jannick’s bike was on its side, the
headlight shining uselessly upward into the falling rain, the front wheel
slowly rotating. Jannick himself remained facedown, steam rising slowly off
his body, the rain continuing its indifferent patter on and around him. It
looked like a freak accident: a bicyclist, going a little too fast in the dark
and the wet, loses control and falls the wrong way. There was no reason to
think it was anything else, and no way to prove it, either.
16
I ZIPPED UP the binoculars and moved out to Page Mill. I waited a few minutes
until there were no headlights coming from either direction, then jogged
across the road and returned to the car.
I drove back to San Francisco, to the Tenderloin district, which I knew had a
large homeless population. I left everything I’d worn that night next to
garbage cans on a variety of street corners off Market, knowing the garments
would be efficiently scavenged, distributed, and assimilated into the shifting
ranks of the homeless within hours, perhaps minutes, of my passage. The
binoculars and the SureFire went over the side of the San Mateo Bridge, into
the dark, trackless waters of San Francisco Bay.
I found an Internet café called the NCK Cyber Lounge in San Mateo, where I
checked the Kanezaki bulletin board. It was empty. I posted him a message: Jan
Jannick, Dutch national, CEO of Deus Ex Technologies in Palo Alto, California,
In-Q-Tel backing.
I’d wait until tomorrow to contact Hilger. There were two commodities I needed
if I was going to find Dox: information and time. Immediately apprising Hilger
of Jannick’s demise would have cost me both. I couldn’t wait too long to
contact him, though, because sooner or later he was going to learn when
Jannick had died and I didn’t want it to look like I was playing for time. But
I could slow things down. A message in the morning to set up a phone call for
even later would buy me an additional twenty-four hours, maybe even more.
Within which, with luck, Kanezaki might have some new information.
Kanezaki. He wasn’t going to be happy to learn of the identity of the first
target after the fact. I’d just have to finesse his suspicions as best I
could. I went out and called him from a pay phone.
“You got anything?” I asked, when he picked up.
“No. Didn’t you…”
“The phone number you’re tracking?”
“He’s keeping it turned off. Not a surprise. Look, didn’t you check the
bulletin board?”
“Yeah, I just left you a message there. Name and particulars of the first
person on the list.”
“Our friend gave you the list?”
“Just the first entry. And it’s already taken care of.”
“It’s already…you were just here forty-eight hours ago. How could you have…you
must be bullshitting me, you must have known who it was when you were out
here. Otherwise you couldn’t have done it so fast.”
“I’m not bullshitting you. All I knew was I was supposed to go to California.
The information was waiting for me when I arrived yesterday. I caught a lucky
break and an opportunity presented itself. I didn’t have a chance to tell you
sooner and I’m telling you now.”
There was a long silence. He knew I’d known earlier. But what could he do?
“I’m waiting on the second name now,” I said. “As soon as I have it, I’ll tell
you. In the meantime, take what’s on the bulletin board and see how it
cross-references with what I’ve already given you. I’ll drag things out as
long as I can on my end.”
“I hope you’re not going to fuck me on this.”
“Why would I? We both want the same thing. It’s just a question of timing.
I’ll check in again tomorrow, okay?”
He waited a moment, then said, “Okay.”
Back at the hotel, I took a long, hot shower. Then I got a fire going and sat
with a towel around my waist, watching the flames. I hadn’t eaten in more than

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eight hours, and I thought I should get something into my stomach. But I
wasn’t hungry.
I wanted to feel something. Relief that I’d bought Dox time. Horror that I’d
just killed a man, probably a husband and father, not a mile from his house,
on the very road he was taking home to his family. Fear that I’d missed some
variable, that even now the local police, or worse, Hilger and his men, were
mapping my coordinates, triangulating on my position, moving in for the kill.
But there was nothing. It was as though some emotional spinal cord had been
severed, leaving my mind useless and numb.
The numbness disturbed me. It was how I always used to feel, or rather, not
feel, after taking a life. Clinical, analytical, detached. The trouble in
Manila, when I’d frozen rather than traumatize a child by killing his father
in front of him, had actually been a kind of breakthrough for me, although I’d
only realized it in retrospect. It had been the first sign that the killer
might be less than all of me, the first crack in the ice of what I was. But
now, the iceman was back. And not just for the work, it seemed. For the
aftermath. For everything.
All of which was bad enough. But what was worse was how…comfortable it felt.
Like a favorite chair, or the food you grew up on, or an old, perfectly sprung
pair of boots that felt just right when you slipped them on after a long
absence.
I told myself there was no reason to be concerned. Being myself again felt
natural enough, and it was certainly easy. I thought maybe I should just give
in and go with it. What was the point of fighting, anyway? In the long run,
you can’t win against yourself. I’d been up on points for a while, but the
iceman was patient. He’d bided his time, and when he saw his moment, he’d
found his way back.
No, not back. Maybe he’d just always been there. Like I supposed he always
would be.
17
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I left the Stanford Park and headed south on 101. In
an Internet café in San Jose, I checked the Kanezaki bulletin board. It was
empty. I found another café and checked on Hilger. Again, nothing. I left him
a message that read, “Tell me when I can reach you by phone.” I didn’t say
Jannick was done. I didn’t mention Dox. For the moment, I wanted to keep my
options open.
It looked as though I had a little time on my hands. I decided to return to
Los Angeles by the coastal route. Strange circumstances to fulfill my ambition
to drive along the sea, but smoke ’em if you got ’em. And it would give me a
chance to think.
The drive was beautiful. My appetite came back on the way, and I stopped in
Carmel for lunch. I stumbled across an Italian place called Casanova in a cozy
mission-style building, and ate on their patio, warmed by the radiant sun. The
food was superb: bruschetta with local heirloom tomatoes; linguini with fresh
mussels and shallots; chocolate nougatine pie. All accompanied by a ’96 Hudson
Vineyard Marcassin Chardonnay that alone was worth the drive.
It was the kind of place Delilah liked, and the kind of place I liked to take
her. I realized I should probably call her. But I didn’t know what I would
say. The work she did, and the world she inhabited, necessitated compromises,
of course, but in her way Delilah was as ethical a person as I’ve ever known.
I didn’t want to have to tell her what I’d just done. And I didn’t want to
hear the suspicion in her voice if I refused to answer her questions. I
certainly didn’t want her judging me. I’d dealt with enough of that shit with
Midori and wasn’t going to put up with it from Delilah, too. How could she
understand, anyway? How could anyone, who hadn’t been there?
Yeah, but Delilah knows you, better than anyone. She would understand.
Bullshit. No one ever understands. They say they do, but they don’t.
I kept heading south, the windows down, the sunroof open, the wind in my hair.
The road narrowed in Big Sur, the traffic thinning, the stores and houses and
other signs of people slowly evaporating as I drove. Soon the land was mostly

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quiet meadows and conifered hills, scalloped cliffs that wended along the
Pacific, in and out, back and forth, each curve in the road revealing some
new, spectacular vista. I watched the ocean sparkling a thousand feet below
and felt I was driving along the edge of the earth, through some intensely
private and stoical place, beyond civilization’s purview, beyond any notion of
redemption or regret, a place that existed only for itself, that neither
welcomed nor opposed nor held in any regard at all the fragile creatures who
intermittently passed through in awe of it.
San Simeon. Pismo Beach. Santa Barbara. The sun set over the water as I drove,
yellow, then pink, then finally a long red band at the horizon, fading to
indigo. I wondered if Delilah had ever driven this route, and imagined what it
would be like to have her here with me, watching as daylight yielded to a
giant vault of stars. I tried to push away the thought, but the feeling
persisted.
I drove on in the dark. Absent the distraction of the sunlit scenery, my mind
began to wander, not to good places. I thought of Jannick, and all I had taken
from him. I reminded myself that I had no choice, that it was either him or
Dox. I thought of Hilger, and regret and ambivalence were eclipsed by hatred
and cold rage.
First Dox, I reminded myself. Then Hilger. Just be patient. That’s what’s
going to make this work for you.
I stopped in Santa Monica and checked the bulletin boards. Nothing from
Kanezaki. A short message from Hilger: Call me at 08:00 GMT.
Eight o’clock Greenwich Mean Time…that would be midnight in California. Damn,
it was almost eight out here already. A few more hours, and I would have
missed the time for the call. I thought about skipping it entirely, telling
him I hadn’t gotten the message until too late, giving Kanezaki more time to
work the data. But I decided not to. If Kanezaki hadn’t found anything by now,
he wasn’t going to, at least not without more information. A call to Hilger
might shake something loose. And besides, I wanted to check in on Dox, to see
if he was okay.
I thought for a moment. Hilger’s message was left at five o’clock that evening
California time. I had posted at nine o’clock that morning, which would have
been midnight or later throughout most of Asia. I imagined Hilger going to
sleep sometime before I posted the message, receiving it and responding in the
evening my time…morning his. A reasonably safe bet, then, that he was still in
Asia somewhere, on a boat as Dox had said. It wasn’t much, but the more pieces
I had, the better I’d be able to recognize and exploit each one of them, until
hopefully, finally, they’d all add up to a breakthrough.
I called Kanezaki from a pay phone. “Heads up,” I told him. “There’s going to
be a call at oh-eight-hundred GMT. Less than four hours from now. If you have
a way to track the signal, that’s your moment. I’ll keep him on for as long as
I can.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “If our man is careful enough to keep the phone off
the rest of the time, I doubt he’d be stupid enough to call from an insecure
location.”
Kanezaki had grown a lot since I’d first met him, but he still had an annoying
tendency to try to show his smarts by stating the obvious. “Of course he
wouldn’t,” I told him. “But it’ll be one more piece of data to work with. I’d
rather know where he places the call than not know, wouldn’t you?”
There was a slight pause while he absorbed the rebuke. Then he said, “You’re
right.”
“What about the guy I posted about? Any leads on that?”
“No.”
“The government venture-capital backing? You don’t think that’s a coincidence,
do you?”
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence, but I haven’t turned it into anything
workable yet, either.”
“All right, then. Oh-eight-hundred GMT. I’ll call you when it’s done.”
I had a burrito and a fruit smoothie at a place on the pier, then killed time

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by strolling, loosening up after the long drive. I went to a pay phone at
exactly midnight and made the call.
One ring, then Hilger’s voice: “Yeah.”
I noted that he picked up directly. Maybe he’d made his point about the
strength of his numbers last time, and didn’t feel the need to repeat it.
“It’s done,” I said.
“I know. Nice work. You complained about five days, but in the end you only
needed two.”
Maybe he already knew about Jannick. Maybe he was bluffing to impress me with
his omniscience. It didn’t really matter.
“Let me talk to Dox,” I said.
There was a short pause, and then I heard the big sniper’s baritone, tinny
through the speakerphone. “Dox here.”
“How are you doing?”
“Bored. This is one of the dullest groups of nitwits I’ve ever been forced to
spend time with. It’s a dark day to be a Marine.”
He was telling me they weren’t leaving him alone, that there was someone with
him at all times. With a little luck, they’d notice only the insult, and not
the substance it concealed. But why the mention of the Marines?
I heard static, then Hilger’s voice again. “All right, you heard him, he’s
fine.”
That was the second time he’d grabbed the phone in a hurry. The Marines…was
that what Dox was going to say when Hilger had grabbed the phone from him last
time? And what did he mean by it now? Hilger was former Army. But what about
the people with him? Did Dox know one of them from his Marine days? Or did he
have some other way of knowing one of them was a jarhead?
Why did Hilger keep cutting me off so fast? I had a sudden, uncomfortable
thought. Far-fetched, maybe, but…
“Put him on again,” I said.
“No.”
“Put him on. You can listen, I just want to make sure it’s him and not one of
your people imitating his voice.”
There was a pause, then I heard Dox’s voice. “Yeah.”
“What’s your favorite hotel in Bangkok?”
“What?”
“Your favorite hotel in Bangkok.”
“What is this? You don’t think it’s me?”
“They’re only letting me talk to you for a second at a time and your accent is
too easy to imitate.”
“What accent?”
“Tell me.”
“If they hear my answer, I won’t be able to go there after this. And that
would be a tragedy.”
It had to be Dox. No one else could be so obstreperous. But still.
“The name, goddamnit.”
“Look, I like the place because of the mirrors in the bathrooms. I tried to
tell you about a threesome I had in one, all right? With two lovely Thai
ladies. And you cut me off ’cause you didn’t want to hear.”
I let out a long breath. It was him all right. The hotel was the Sukothai, and
yeah, I had cut him off the time he tried to tell me the story.
I heard the phone being moved, then Hilger’s voice. “Satisfied?” he asked.
“All right,” I said. “I’ve held up my end. Now let him go.”
“You’re not done. There are two more.”
Well, it was worth a try.
“Give me the particulars, then,” I said.
“Not yet. You’re a little ahead of schedule.”
“We’re doing this on a schedule?”
“The person’s not in position yet. As soon as he is, I’ll upload the
information you need.”
On the one hand, I liked the extra time. On the other hand, once again, I

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hated the idea that Hilger would be able to follow me by my efforts to track
his target. I hoped Kanezaki would find something to help me short-circuit the
whole thing.
“How long are we talking about?” I asked.
“Forty-eight hours. Check the bulletin board then.”
He clicked off.
I called Kanezaki from a pay phone. “You get it?” I asked.
“I got it. He’s in Jakarta. Or at least he was during the time you had him on
the phone.”
I was gripping the phone hard. “Where in Jakarta?”
“Pluit, it looks like. The marina.”
“Can you be more precise than that?”
“What do you want, an address? All I know is he was near a cell tower in
Pluit. Without a formal request to the NSA, which will create a lot of
questions and take a month to process anyway, I can’t triangulate. I can only
give you a radius around a single tower. From what I can see, either he was in
Pluit, or he was a little way out in the Java Sea.”
I was quiet for a moment. He was right, I wasn’t being reasonable. But damn,
to feel like I was that close to having him in my sights…
“He’s got our friend on a boat,” I said. “They probably docked in Jakarta to
make the call, maybe use an Internet café, whatever. But with the boat, they
could move anywhere, and keep moving. There are ten million people in Jakarta
alone. Leave Jakarta, and you’ve got seventeen thousand islands, only six
thousand of them inhabited, and probably twenty thousand miles of coast. And
that’s all assuming he stays somewhere in Indonesia and doesn’t move on. Shit,
this isn’t much better than knowing he’s in Asia.”
“It’s another piece,” Kanezaki said, after a moment. “Like you said.”
I sighed. He was right again. “Is this anything you can use with what you’ve
already got?” I said. “The visas, the previous known location, the government
backing?”
“I doubt it. I don’t have a way to search travel records by location, only by
names. It doesn’t look like our friend was traveling as himself. So it’s slow
going.”
“All right,” I said, trying not to be frustrated. We had so many pieces…but
they still added up to nothing. I fought the urge to just go to Jakarta, see
what I could find there. Without more information it would be useless.
“What about you?” he asked. “You learn anything on the call? Anything new we
can work with?”
“No. Well…maybe one of the people who’s holding Dox is or was a Marine. I
think Dox was trying to indicate that, but I’m not sure.”
“All right, I’ll see if that gets us anywhere.”
Even as he said it, I knew it was unlikely. It was almost nothing.
“Anyway, that’s all,” I said. “Hilger told me he’d upload details about the
next assignment two days from now.”
“Two days from now? You’re doing it again, aren’t you? Giving yourself time
to…”
“I’m not doing anything. He told me the person isn’t in position yet and
wouldn’t be for forty-eight hours. I’ve got nothing to do but wait. If you
could come up with something in that time, it sure would be handy.”
“Otherwise…”
“Yeah, that’s right. Otherwise we get to number two on the list.”
“Jesus,” I heard him breathe.
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me,” I growled. “I’m not going to let something happen to my
friend.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Bullshit. I don’t want to hear it. Not unless you’ve ever once gotten your
own hands bloody. Have you? Ever? Or do you only send out other people for the
nasty stuff so you can sleep like a fucking baby at night?”
A long moment went by. Then he said, “I wasn’t judging you. I was just…a
little awed. That’s all. I’m trying to help, okay?”

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I watched people strolling past me. A group of teenagers, laughing through
orthodontic-perfect smiles, sauntering in distressed jeans that probably cost
two hundred dollars a pair. Men whose faces bore the marks of nothing worse
than overstretched mortgage worries beat back by too much Botox. Women with
bare liposuctioned midriffs and Herculean plastic breasts. A river of well-fed
selfishness, a contagion of insecure conceit. I hated them. I hated all of
them.
“You there?” I heard Kanezaki ask.
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, and you probably will, you seem like you’re on a
short fuse lately.”
“You’re right, I mind.”
“I’m only bringing it up because…”
“Because what?”
“Never mind.”
“What? Just say it.”
He sighed. “Don’t push away the people who are trying to help you. You can’t
afford it. And neither can our friend who’s in trouble.”
“Oh, now you’re trying to help me. Not use me. Help me.”
“Look, there’s something I want out of this, yes. I’ve been upfront with you
about it. But that doesn’t mean…”
“That’s exactly what it means,” I shouted. “Exactly. When are you going to
grow up and realize you can’t fucking have it both ways?”
I slammed down the phone and clenched my hands into fists, fighting the urge
to smash something. A sound rumbled up out of my throat. It might have been a
snarl.
I looked up and saw three husky college kids watching from five yards away.
White, dressed like gangsta wannabes. I realized they had stopped because of
my outburst.
“Chill, dude,” one of them said.
I stood perfectly still. Inside, a war raged: the need to avoid trouble so I
could focus on Dox; the overwhelming urge to slaughter the three creatures
looking at me like I was an animal in the zoo. I imagined myself tearing into
them like a lawn mower up on its back wheels, slashing, ripping, gutting. I
could almost hear their high-pitched wails of terror and surprise, could
practically smell the hot blood pouring out of them. I gritted my teeth into
an insane smile and stood staring at them, panting with the effort of holding
back, praying for one of them to say something, do something, to tip the
balance and make me lose control.
One of them smacked Mr. Chill on the back of the head and gave him a shove.
“Let’s go, man,” he said. And Mr. Chill, perhaps guided by some reptile-brain
recognition of the image of a predator just before it pounces, nodded and
silently complied. The three of them walked away, and somehow I managed to let
them.
I glanced around. A few other people in the area were studiously looking
elsewhere. Goddamnit, I’d drawn attention to myself. Stupid. I pulled out a
handkerchief and wiped down the phone receiver, obscuring the act with my
torso, then walked away, keeping my head down.
I found another pay phone and called the toll-free number for Hilton hotels.
Their property in Beverly Hills had a room available tonight, did I want that?
I told them I did, and would be there shortly. One night was fine. I was just
passing through.
I had the car for a week anyway, so I decided to hold on to it. It beat
figuring out the bus system, or trying to get around by cabs. I had nowhere to
go for two days. I might as well stay here.
The nav system took me onto the Santa Monica Boulevard and east toward Beverly
Hills. I drove through alternating patches of feeble yellow light and serene
urban darkness, the interior of the Mercedes strobing weakly with each passing
lamppost. Fragments without were illuminated, revealed, then gone again: a
shuffling homeless man, glancing up at me as indifferently as a sea creature

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outside a passing bathysphere. Shuttered storefronts, graffitied walls,
construction sites suffocating under profusions of slapped-on posters. A
homeless woman, sunk to her side in the shadows, her head in her hands,
another soul swallowed up by the city.
A few miles from the hotel, as concrete gave way to palm trees and graffiti to
the shiny windows of boutiques, I turned on my old cell phone to check the
voice-mail account. Part of me hoped for a message from Delilah. Part of me
dreaded it.
What I got, though, wasn’t a message. Just a second after I fired up the
phone, it buzzed. I checked the readout, surprised, and saw that Delilah was
calling me right then.
I hesitated for two full rings. Then I picked up and said, “Hey.”
“You’re hard to reach,” she said. “And you don’t return calls.”
I thought of several things to say. What came out was just, “Sorry.”
“You know how many times I’ve called you, hoping I’d catch you with your phone
on?”
“A lot, I’m getting the feeling.”
“Any news?”
“Some. He’s okay for now.”
“Did you meet with…”
“I met him.”
“And?”
“I learned a few things. But not enough.”
“Where are you now?”
“I…” I started to say. Then, “I don’t know where I am.”
“I want to see you. Just tell me where.”
“I’m in California. But…”
“I have some time off. Tell me where on the bulletin board. I’ll fly out.”
I wanted her, and yet I didn’t. “You shouldn’t come,” I said. “You don’t want
to be mixed up in this.”
“You told me you feel tied to me. Did you mean it?”
I sighed. “Christ, you’re stubborn.”
“Did you mean it?”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “You know I did.”
“Then I’m coming to see you. Just tell me where.”
“I’ve only got two days…”
“Post it now and I can be there tomorrow afternoon.”
A dozen more protestations came to mind. But I said only, “I need to get to a
computer.”
“Okay. And give me the name you’re using. I’ll make a reservation somewhere
and tell them to let you in. If you show them ID, you won’t have to wait for
me.”
We were quiet for a moment. I said, “What are you wearing?”
She gave me a small laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My gut roiled with conflicting emotions. I waited, wanting to say something
more, for her to say something more, but she had already clicked off.
I found an Internet café in West Hollywood and told Delilah I was in L.A. Then
I went to the hotel. I used their business center to check the Air France
website—a safe bet Delilah would be flying the national carrier if she wanted
her choice of nonstops. There were two flights she could use. One got in at
3:50 in the afternoon, the next, a few hours later at 6:55.
I lay in bed for a long time, thinking, trying to unwind. I wanted to see her,
but at the same time I was afraid to. Afraid of what she’d make of me. Which
was stupid, of course. Why should I even care what she thought, or anyone
else? And if anyone could understand…
No one can understand. No one.
Lying in another anonymous bed in another random hotel room, back in the life
as though I’d never left it, I thought I should just let Delilah go. Already
my relationship with her felt improbable, inapplicable, absurd. What could I
have with her, anyway? Separate apartments in a foreign city, thoughts and

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lives that we couldn’t discuss?
It didn’t matter. Whatever we had, it was gone, another moment alchemized to
memory. I should just accept that. I should just move on, alone. It was all I
was ever good for. It was all I could really trust.
18
DELILAH ARRIVED at LAX at a little before four in the afternoon California
time. It was almost one in the morning now in Paris, but she’d napped on the
flight and didn’t feel tired at all. Flying west was easy. It was the trip
back that could be a little rough.
She was carrying only a shoulder bag, a dark brown Bottega Veneta in classic
woven leather, and was in a cab less than twenty minutes after touching down.
She told the driver, a twentysomething with a nice smile who she guessed was
from West Africa, to take her to the Beverly Wilshire, although the
reservation she’d made was in fact at the Bel-Air. Unlikely anyone was waiting
at the airport to try to follow her, but she wanted a chance to confirm anyway
before going on to her true destination.
“And let’s stay on Sepulveda to Jefferson Boulevard,” she added.
“Are you sure, miss? The four-oh-five would be faster.”
She knew that, which was exactly why she wanted to go through the city. In
L.A. freeway traffic, it would be impossible to know whether anyone was
following them; there could be fifty cars between the cab and a tail. The city
route, by contrast, would have fewer cars and more local traffic. Every time
the cab turned, Delilah would be able to check behind to see if anyone had
stayed with them. A few instances of a car going the same way could be a
coincidence. All the way from the airport to Beverly Hills would be a
different matter.
“I’d just like to see the city,” Delilah said.
The driver furrowed his brow and smiled. “Of course, of course. You…live in
L.A.?”
Delilah understood what he was thinking. She obviously knew the city well, but
if she lived here, why would she want to take the scenic route? And with her
looks, he was wondering if she was a celebrity he couldn’t quite place. Her
clothes fit the celebrity theory, too: a classic Burberry trench coat, open
now in the relative warmth of the southern California afternoon; a
cream-colored, scoop-necked cashmere sweater, set off by a long, gold Faraone
Mennella chain-link necklace; chocolate brown, platform-heeled boots worn over
slim-cut jeans. She got that quizzical “Is she a celebrity?” look a lot. It
neither gratified nor displeased her, but was occasionally something she could
use.
“I’ve spent time here,” she said, glancing behind as they turned onto
Sepulveda, marking the cars that followed them.
“Oh, of course,” the driver said, and she knew he would take the glance behind
them as alertness for paparazzi, or, if not that, then wariness about being
followed to an assignation with her lover. The second interpretation, she
realized, wasn’t so much inaccurate as it was incomplete.
She thought of John on the way, and Dox. She was worried about both of them:
Dox, for obvious reasons; Rain, because she knew that precisely because he was
hell-bent on helping his friend, his judgment was likely to be impaired. Look
at the way he had blundered into surveillance last year when he’d gone to see
Midori and their child. Delilah had tried to warn him then, too, and he had
ignored her. She wondered what it was about men that wed them more to a way of
doing things than to achieving their ostensible goals. She loved them, loved
nothing more, but she had to admit the world would be a better place if it
were run by women.
By the time they got to the Beverly Wilshire, she knew she was clean. Still,
she wanted to do a foot route to be absolutely sure. She freshened up in a
restroom, then strolled through Beverly Hills as the sun set, using a variety
of countersurveillance moves to make certain she was alone. After an hour, she
was satisfied, and found another cab.
When she had checked the bulletin board before leaving Paris and learned that

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Rain was in L.A., she immediately thought of the Bel-Air, her favorite hotel
in southern California. She’d stayed there twice, and loved it: a luxurious
but low-key oasis of pink stucco Mission-style buildings, improbably secluded
in the heart of the city among acres of flower and herb gardens, quietly
trickling fountains, and the canopies of ancient trees. The hotel had been
popular with stars since opening in 1946 because it was so serene, secure,
and, of course, discreet. She had posted John the name and location, and the
name she would be using. Just say you’re with Laure Kupfer, she had written,
and they’ll check you in. Then she had called the hotel, paid in advance for
the Garden Suite, and explained that they should give a key to a Mr. Ken, who
might arrive before she did and ask to be let into her room.
The cab let her out on the quiet, residential street that fronted the
property. She crossed a covered stone bridge to the main building within and
was instantly enveloped by the beauty of the place. Water trickled somewhere
in the dark beneath the bridge; to one side, the twisting branches of ancient
sycamores were illuminated by spotlights from below. She caught the scent of
orange blossoms and basil and suddenly realized she was ravenous.
The check-in area was furnished like a comfortable, tasteful living room, all
upholstered furniture, landscape paintings in gilded frames, unostentatious
objets d’art. The light was just right, not too bright, not too dim, and the
room had a welcoming hush to it, along with a faint scent of wood and cut
flowers. A fire crackled in an open fireplace.
Delilah walked over to the front desk and told them she was Laure Kupfer. Of
course, Ms. Kupfer, welcome, they told her. Mr. Ken had already arrived; would
she like to be escorted to the Garden Suite? She thanked them and told them
no, she would rather just stroll over alone.
She walked along a porticoed terrace, her footfalls echoing quietly. She heard
the sounds of conversation and quiet laughter from a few people dining under
the heat lamps on the patio outside the restaurant, but other than that,
Delilah enjoyed the delicious sense that she had the place to herself.
She came to the Garden Suite, unlocked the door, and stepped into the living
room. The lights were on, but she didn’t see Rain. “John?” she called out.
There was no answer. A fire was burning in the stone fireplace, and she caught
a faint, pleasant trace of smoke in the air. A thick contemporary Oriental rug
with a floral design was spread across the expansive Saltillo-tiled floor. The
upholstered chairs and couch arranged around a wooden coffee table at the
center of the rug were all empty: not a newspaper, not a tossed-aside jacket,
not an empty glass. Other than the lights and the fire, in fact, there was no
sign that anyone had been using the room.
Suddenly, she was concerned. Rain had sophisticated enemies, and look what had
happened to Dox. What if someone had…
Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. The hotel’s security was
designed to protect Hollywood glitterati. They were safe here. And even if his
judgment were off, Rain was still the most thorough, cautious, paranoid
tactician she’d ever known. He was just out—taking a swim, or using the gym,
or maybe strolling in one of the gardens.
She walked into the bedroom, scanning reflexively. Still no sign of him—no
clothes lying around, not even an impression in the bedspread where he might
have been sitting. Ah, there, on one of the dressers—a bottle of 1971
Glenmorangie. A good single malt, that was John. She glanced inside the
walk-in closet, and saw a navy cashmere blazer on a hanger, and a pair of
Camper loafers she recognized as his tucked neatly into a corner. She smiled.
She knew there were women who would kill to have a man so neat, but it could
be a little spooky at times. It was in Rain’s nature to move, and to live,
without leaving sign.
She walked into the enormous bathroom with its soft white tile and mirrors and
sensible light, and found a few toiletries in a drawer. And then, next to one
of the sinks, a note. Okay. She picked it up.
On the grounds, the note read. Back by 7:00.
She looked at her watch. It was 6:15 now. She was mildly annoyed that he

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wasn’t waiting for her, and wondered what he was doing. She recognized the
note itself was a concession: he didn’t like revealing anything that might
enable someone to anticipate him, whether it was a restaurant reservation or a
simple note describing his whereabouts. The vague reference was a compromise,
but because she knew him, she could probably fill in the blanks, as he knew.
She guessed a workout. The gym was right around the corner. If he wasn’t
there, she would just wait for him here. She peeked out at the private
patio—half security habit, half curiosity—and liked what she saw: a hot tub
sunken among the flagstones, rising steam illuminated by an underwater light;
a pair of chaise longues, surrounded by ferns and hibiscus flowers; a high
brick wall surrounding it all. She imagined the hot tub with John later and it
gave her a little shiver. She took a quick shower and went out to find him.
The gym was a large former cottage that had been gutted, carpeted, and
outfitted with the latest equipment. It had a high ceiling and large windows.
Delilah glanced inside, and immediately saw Rain. He was in a corner,
barefoot, in shorts and a tee-shirt, doing squats. She watched, fascinated.
She knew he worked out and he’d told her a bit about his solo routines, but
she’d never seen him. He was going fast now, squat, stand, squat, stand,
occasionally brushing a wet strand of hair back from his eyes. She didn’t know
how many he’d done before she started watching, but she counted two hundred
and fifty, and then fifty more where at the end of every rep he leaped into
the air.
He paused for a moment, and she sensed he was going to scan the windows. She
stepped to the side and waited for a moment so he wouldn’t see her. She wanted
to keep watching.
After a few seconds, she looked back inside. Rain was doing handstand
push-ups, freestanding, not against the wall. Slowly this time: up, down onto
his forehead, hold, then up again. She counted ten, and then he dropped over
into a back bridge and did fifty more push-ups, inverted. A dark line of sweat
ran down the front of his tee-shirt.
He flipped over and stood, and Delilah moved out of the way again. When she
looked back inside, he was hanging from the horizontal bar of one of the
machines, his hands spaced widely. She looked more closely…was he using just
his fingertips? Yes, he was. He did twenty pull-ups, then dropped down and
shadowboxed in front of the mirror. No, it wasn’t just shadow boxing, she
realized; he was incorporating other elements, ripping and grappling movements
she recognized, like some kind of customized karate kata. As he circled
around, she caught a glimpse of his face. His eyes were closed, and she was
surprised, even disconcerted, at the intensity of his expression. This was no
dance for him, she knew; the movements were techniques he could use, had used,
to kill. She wondered what, or whom, he was picturing right then that would
produce such mimed ferocity, and imagined it must be Hilger.
She knew there was a dark skein of intensity deep in Rain’s nature, something
that only rarely revealed itself at the surface. It was a quality that
intrigued her, and, she had to admit, was part of what attracted her to him,
but he never let her see it, and her only previous glimpses had been brief and
inadvertent. She wondered why he was letting himself cut loose like this now,
in a room with so many windows. It must have been the sense of privacy the
hotel grounds fostered. Then she realized she had probably posed the wrong
question: maybe he wasn’t letting himself. Maybe right now he couldn’t help
it. Regardless, this was the longest she’d ever watched him unbeknownst, and
it fascinated and excited her in equal measure.
After five minutes of the drills, Rain started stretching, and Delilah knew he
was warming down. She eased away from the window and returned to the room.
A short while later, sitting in front of the fireplace, the lights turned low,
she heard the key in the lock. She stood and watched the door open a crack,
then swing wider when Rain saw it was her.
“Hey,” he said, looking her over. He was pumped from the workout and she liked
the way the tee-shirt clung to him.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. She had planned on giving him a hard time about not

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being there when she arrived, but now she was just glad to see him.
He bolted the door, then walked over and kissed her lightly. She reached
around for the back of his head, holding him there, prolonging the greeting,
letting it turn into something more.
He raised his glistening arms like a doctor prepping for surgery. “I’m all
wet,” he said.
She let out a little laugh. “Me, too. But I’m starving…why don’t you shower
and we’ll get something to eat?”
They decided on the low-key lounge rather than the more formal dining room,
and sat adjacent to each other at a corner table amid dark paneling, low
light, and a wood fire. He looked good to her after a week away, casual in
faded jeans, a checked oxford cloth shirt, and the cashmere blazer, his dark
hair still wet from the shower. Delilah ordered filet of beef with Stilton;
Rain, roast chicken with polenta, and they shared terrine of foie gras and a
lobster corn custard. Rain chose a bottle of ’89 Lynch-Bages Bordeaux, and
while they ate and drank, she asked him questions, and worked to sift through
the responses.
“What does Hilger want?” she asked, quietly. “Why is he doing this?”
For almost a minute, Rain was silent, rolling the stem of his wineglass
through his fingers, his eyes on the liquid inside. Just as Delilah thought he
wasn’t going to answer, he said, “He wants me to do three jobs.”
There was no need to ask what the jobs would consist of. And she knew he
wouldn’t tell her the details. In fact, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Again he was silent for a long time. Then he said, “If I don’t do the jobs,
Hilger will kill Dox. If I do the jobs, he’ll kill Dox as soon as I’m done.”
“Not just that. He might…”
“Yes, he’ll probably be using one of the jobs as a setup to take me out, too.
I know. That’s why I have to find out where Dox is being held, and free him.
There’s no other way he’s coming out of this alive.”
She couldn’t disagree with his assessment. She said, “You’re playing for time,
then.”
Rain nodded. “Time, and information. Part of the reason I wanted to see Hilger
in person was to make him move. Tracking someone who’s frozen is hard. Moving,
he’ll leave a trail.”
“Has he?”
“So far, only fragments. I know he’s got Dox on a boat, and on one of our
calls they were in Jakarta. He’s probably moving among various Indonesian
islands, and maybe ports in nearby countries. I’m trying to narrow it down.”
She knew not to ask him whether he had already done one of the jobs. Her gut
told her he had. And still it hadn’t been enough. He was going to have to do
it again. God.
She took a sip of wine, thinking. “And you’re sure Dox is…”
He nodded. “I’ve spoken to him twice. The first time, Hilger did something to
him to make him scream. He screamed for a long time.”
From the flatness of his tone and the stillness of his expression, he might
have been describing something he’d read about in the news, not the overheard
torture of a friend. What was it costing him, to recall and relate a memory
like that one with such dispassion?
She took his hand and looked at him. “I’m sorry, John.”
He shook his head slightly, his eyes still on his wineglass.
“Hey,” she said. With her other hand, she reached for his chin, and gently
steered his face toward hers. He met her eyes, and the flatness she saw in his
actually made her flinch. She’d seen eyes like that before, on Gil, her
colleague, the frighteningly efficient killer who had died in Hong Kong. But
Gil’s eyes were like that all the time; it was all there was to him. It was
worse to see the look on John, whom she knew so much better, whom she cared
about so intimately.
He blinked, then suddenly was back, his eyes alive again. He swallowed and
looked away. “You, uh, you want dessert?” he asked, glancing around for the

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waiter.
They finished with a Grand Marnier soufflé accompanied by glasses of an ’85
Graham’s Port, followed by French-press coffee. That look she’d seen didn’t
return, but nor could she say he was being himself. It was almost as though
someone was doing a good imitation of him, but the persona wasn’t quite
natural, with some acting, some effort showing through it. But why? What was
he hiding?
Back at the suite, Rain poured them each a healthy measure of the
Glenmorangie. The fire had burned low, and she sat on the couch, the lights
off, watching him kneel in the glow of the embers, moving coals, adding logs,
getting it going again. After a little while, there was a good blaze, and she
thought he would join her. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was, kneeling
almost formally, one hand under the whiskey glass, the other on its side,
watching the flames, his back to her.
“You going to come sit with me?” she asked.
After a moment, he came wordlessly to the couch and sat down a few inches
away.
“What is it?” she asked, after a moment.
“I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He took a swallow of whiskey. “I don’t know how to.”
She looked at him. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
He returned the look, his eyes narrowing. “No. The problem is the problem. Not
my disinclination to discuss it.”
“So you know how to, but don’t want to.”
For an instant, his face contorted in anger. He swallowed and seemed to get it
under control. “What difference does it make?” he said.
“It makes a lot of difference. How is about you. Not wanting to is about me.”
He flushed and looked away, and she realized she was pushing too hard, no
matter the truth of her words. She could be enormously patient and subtle when
she was eliciting information from a target, but she had a habit of reverting
to a more primitive, more deep-seated self with Rain. She cared too much about
him; that was the problem. Her feelings made her forget herself. They brought
forth all her default settings, the bad along with the good.
A little more tactical, girl, she thought. Not just for you. For him, too.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It just…scares me when you keep everything bottled up.
It makes me feel insecure. I’m not used to feeling that way.”
He finished his Glenmorangie. Ordinarily, he savored a good single malt.
Gulping it down like this, especially after a bottle of wine and a glass of
port, wasn’t like him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just…there are parts of you that you don’t let me see.
And sometimes I feel like they’re the most important parts.” She was being
tactical now, yes, but she wasn’t lying, either.
He refilled his glass and topped off hers. They sat quietly for a while,
Delilah sipping her whiskey, Rain drinking his down, the light from the fire
playing on the walls.
“I don’t know why you want to be with me,” he said, staring into the flames.
“Why do you say that?”
He kept looking away from her. “Because of what I am.”
“What are you?”
“You know.”
“I don’t. I only know how I feel about you.”
He shook his head as though saying No, you’re missing the point, then looked
at her, his lips pursed, struggling with what he was trying to say. This time,
what she saw in his eyes was utterly different from what she’d seen in the
bar. She had never seen it before in him and wasn’t entirely sure what it was.
But if she had to attach a word to it, the word would be…pleading.
“I’m…a…killer!” he whispered emphatically, as though simultaneously ashamed at
the admission and bewildered that she couldn’t understand the point.
He looked away again. “Look at me,” he said, his voice rising. “I can’t stop.

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The most I can do is take breaks from the life, like an addict falling on and
off the wagon. But it always finds me again. And you know why? Because it is
me. It’s what I am.”
He drained the rest of his whiskey and slammed the empty glass down on the
coffee table, then stood and started pacing, his head swiveling, his hands
clenching. He was so wound up it looked like his body was fighting itself, the
muscles bunched and writhing under the clothes.
She got up and intercepted him. He stopped in front of her and stood there,
breathing hard, his hands balled into fists. No wonder he was working out the
way he was. If he didn’t burn some of this off, it was going to consume him.
“Hey,” she said, trying to get him to meet her eyes. “Hey. I know you. As well
as I’ve ever known anyone, maybe better. Don’t tell me you’re only that one
thing.”
He laughed harshly. “What else matters?”
She took his face in her hands and steered it so that he was looking into her
eyes. “You,” she said. “What you decide. That’s what matters.”
“I’m talking about what I am.”
She shook her head. “What you choose is what matters. Not the things you’ve
done, or your abilities, or the training you’ve had, or even your
inclinations. You can atone for all the rest, but your choices are what make
you who you are.”
“You don’t understand….”
“I do. You’re not Gil. Don’t reduce yourself to that one thing. Find a way to
be more than that. You have been, I’ve watched it happening in Paris.”
“I was fooling myself in Paris. And I guess you, too.”
“No, you’re fooling yourself now, or trying to. You’re in a bad situation and
you’re terribly worried about your friend. Don’t let that…”
“I can’t!” he shouted. “I can’t be both. I have to be a certain way, or…or…”
“To save Dox, yes, you have to be that way, I understand,” she said, staying
with him. “And you will. But that’s situational. It doesn’t define what you
are. Don’t let it.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and drew his lips back from his teeth as though the
agony he felt were physical. “I don’t know how,” he whispered.
“By the choices you make.”
He shook his head violently. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I know, and for the moment, you’re doing what you have to do. But the moment
is going to pass. It’s a situation, it isn’t you.”
He looked up at the ceiling, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, the
muscles in his neck tight cords. He was fighting something, tears, terror, she
didn’t know what.
“I…” he said, and then the word was choked off. He shook his head and took
hold of her wrists as though preparing to cast her aside, and she sensed that
whatever battle was raging inside him, he was losing it.
“Stay with me, John,” she said, trying to get him to look at her again. “Stay
with me, please….”
And then he had her face in his hands and he was kissing her, ferociously,
desperately, ravening her as though she was the only connection keeping him
from being sucked away into some nameless horror. She kissed him back, hard,
her mouth open, her hands in his hair, letting him feel her, take whatever he
needed from her, making him know with her mouth and her hands and her body
that she was there and she wasn’t going to let him go.
He backed her into the bedroom, his hands still on her face, his mouth not
leaving hers for an instant. The feel of her jeans rubbing against her as she
moved was suddenly maddening, electric, and she realized with a start that she
was close to coming from nothing more than the way he was kissing her and the
friction of a tight pair of jeans. For a moment, she forgot where they were,
she wanted him to just keep kissing her like that, keep moving her like that,
yes, just that way…
The back of her thighs bumped against the side of the bed. She was barely
thinking now, she just wanted him naked, his skin against her, his weight on

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her, all of him inside her. He broke the kiss to lift her sweater over her
head and was back before he had even tossed it aside, his tongue, his teeth,
the taste of whiskey and his own taste, too. She managed to get his belt open,
then his pants. She reached inside, and when she felt how hard he was, it
excited her even more. She squeezed and felt his breath catch.
She pushed the jacket off his shoulders and tugged it down over his arms, then
got his shirt off and threw it aside, never once letting him stop kissing her.
He pushed her back on the bed and stepped out of his pants. She realized her
bra was gone, she hadn’t even been aware of his doing it. Her groin ached and
she was panting. Without thinking, she put her hand on herself, over her
jeans, and rubbed. “Hurry,” she said.
Then he was naked, leaning over her, unbuttoning her jeans. He hooked his
fingers inside the waistband and peeled the jeans and her panties down over
her legs and flung them away. She scrambled back on the bed, spreading her
legs and raising her knees, and Rain moved on top of her. She took hold to
guide him and she was so wet that he didn’t stop or even slow but buried
himself inside her with one violent stroke. She gasped with the mixed pleasure
and pain of it and he moved back and thrust again and this time she cried out
because she was coming, her back arching, her body shuddering, her hands
moving involuntarily to his ass to pull him deeper, deeper. She felt his arms
go under hers and he took her face hard in both hands and spread her legs
wider with his thighs, his weight on her now, holding her, pinning her to the
bed, kissing her hard again, fucking her like some primitive natural force
she’d conjured but could now no longer control. He was moaning in her mouth,
she could hear it and feel it both, and his movements grew faster, more
brutal, and she felt another orgasm welling up from the depths of her. He
groaned and squeezed his eyes shut and hammered at her harder than ever, as
though enraged, or enraptured, or punishing an enemy he didn’t know how else
to kill. Then the groan grew wilder and his body tensed and she felt him
coming and she came, too, a shock wave of pleasure reverberating from her
groin to her toes, her breasts, her fingertips, her mouth where he was kissing
her still.
Slowly, gingerly, she settled back onto the bed, gasping as though she had
just surfaced from the deep. Rain dropped his head next to hers and took some
weight onto his elbows. She heard him mumble something, she didn’t know what,
and she smiled through near delirium.
He remained like that for a few moments, the only movement the gradually
slowing rise and fall of his breathing. Then he rolled off her onto his back,
but close this time, so their bodies were touching, not the way it had been on
the couch. They lay there, and she imagined a pair of shipwreck survivors who
had just washed up exhausted onto a beach.
He came to his side to face her and put a hand on her belly. A line of sweat
was trickling down his forehead, and she wiped it away with a finger.
“You okay?” he asked.
She smiled. “Okay?”
“I didn’t mean to be so…rough.”
She laughed. “I think you did.”
He dropped his eyes and a little color crept into his cheeks. “Well…”
He looked so appealing to her right then. The tousled hair…the sweat…the
sudden shyness after a bout of demonic lovemaking. “Sometimes you’re a little
rough, John,” she said, tracing the contours of his face with her fingertips.
“It’s part of you. It’s part of what I…like about you.”
Good God, in the raw, dazed honesty of the moment, she had almost said, “What
I love about you.” She had been close before to giving voice to those
feelings, but had always pulled back out of fear of his reaction.
“Come sit with me in the hot tub,” she said.
He looked at her, sidelong. “I don’t know if I can move.”
She smiled and punched him on the shoulder. “If I can, you can.”
They switched off the patio lights and entered the water slowly, wincing from
the heat at first, then enduring, and finally surrendering to it. They sat

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immersed in the near dark, steam rising into the cool air around them.
“It’s good here, isn’t it?” Delilah said. In the dim light, she could see his
eyes, but not make out his expression.
He didn’t answer for a while. He was looking past her, and just as she thought
she would take a chance and ask him what he was thinking, he said, “How will I
know?”
“Know what?”
“How to make the right choice. Because I never have before.”
She reached through the water and took his hand. “I think you made a good one
a few minutes ago. That’s a start.”
19
DOX HAD BECOME adept at reading sounds and other signals on the boat. Whose
footsteps belonged to whom; whose muffled voices. The vibration of the engine
when they were at sea; its silence when they were in port. The slight dip and
rise of the craft when someone stepped on or off it. He knew they were in a
port right now, somewhere. Hilger and the blond dude were off the boat; only
Uncle Fester and the young-looking guy were still aboard.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and knew from the sound it was Fester. He
glanced up a moment later and there he was, looking in through the door
window. Dox smiled at him to let him know he wasn’t afraid, and turned up both
his hands to offer a double middle finger salute. He heard the lock turning,
and Fester poked his head in.
“How you doing, Uncle Fester?” Dox asked, smiling as though the psycho were
his best friend.
“I’m good, pendejo. I wanted you to know, I’m going to bring you a surprise.”
“Oh, Fester, you don’t have to put yourself out for me. I know you’ve got
important things to do, you know, lawns to mow, fruit to pick, things like
that.”
Fester reddened and Dox felt a rush of satisfaction. He had nothing against
Mexicans or anyone else for that matter. It was just a good way to push
Fester’s buttons.
Fester recovered and broke out in a hundred-watt psycho smile. “Ordinarily,
I’d fuck you up for that. But…I think now I’ll wait until next time I see you.
I’ll bring the surprise then. I just want you to have it to think about.”
Dox shook his head. “Fester, I’m disappointed in you. It’s sad that a
first-class sadist such as yourself should have to resort to such crude and
obvious strategies as trying to instill dread in the prisoner. You’ve been
reading too many books on interrogation, I think that’s the problem.”
Fester reddened again, and Dox thought he might be onto something. Before he
could follow up, Fester said, “Oh, one more thing. You know, we’re setting up
your friend. He’s doing some jobs for us, and then we’re going to kill him.
Should be just another day, maybe two. When he’s dead, we won’t need you
anymore. I’m telling you because I want you to wonder every time I knock on
your door. ‘Is he here to give me my surprise? Or is he going to gut me and
let me bleed over the side to attract sharks before throwing me in?”’
“That’s more like it, Fester! See how you put some of your own special
personality into it? That time, it didn’t feel like it came from a book. Keep
practicing, and soon you’ll be able to terrorize any helpless, manacled
prisoner you like. You’ll be an inspiration to sadists everywhere.”
Fester smiled. “Okay, pendejo. See you soon.” He closed the door and Dox
listened to his footsteps as he went up the stairs.
He let out a long breath. Just because Fester had read it in a book, and it
was crude and obvious, didn’t make it ineffective. Knowing Fester’s tactics,
and provoking the man on top of it, was helping. But when that door closed,
and the sound of footsteps receded, it was hard not to be scared.
Especially after that “See you soon.” Something had kept Fester from losing
his temper just now, something he was looking forward to. Dox hated to think
of what it might be.
20
DELILAH LEFT the next afternoon. She had things going on in Paris, I knew, but

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still it wasn’t easy to get her to go. She was worried about me, and about
Dox. She wanted to help.
I appreciated the sentiment, but I was determined to keep her out of this. I’d
accepted, even solicited, her help before, but that had always been
operational. These killings for Hilger…no matter the reasons, no matter the
coercion, there was a line I didn’t want her to cross. She had no idea what
would be waiting for her on the other side of it, or how difficult, maybe
impossible, it is to find your way back.
I didn’t want to face it, but the odds of my coming out of this thing intact
weren’t exactly encouraging. I’d established some room for maneuver, true, but
overall Hilger was still calling the shots. He had no intention of letting me
live when I was done with his work, and there were a hundred ways he could use
Dox to get to me when he was ready. Even if I managed to survive, most likely
Dox wouldn’t, and losing him would fuck me up in ways I sensed but didn’t want
to fully consider. What would Delilah do with me after that? And no matter how
things turned out, as long as Hilger was out there, I’d be not just a burden
to Delilah, but a danger, too. It wasn’t fair to her.
Not two days earlier, I’d decided I should just break things off with her, I’d
accepted that it had to be done. Then, stupidly, I’d let her come see me, and
it had been so good that I’d temporarily forgotten my resolve. But already, as
I drove east into West Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard, the sun flaring behind
me as it sank in the sky, my evening with Delilah was beginning to feel
meaningless, even foolish. She was an attractive woman, yes, more attractive
than any I’d ever known. And she had a lot of good qualities, along with a few
maddening ones. But what did any of that have to do with me, really, and the
life I had to lead? Drunk on liquor at the time, and intoxicated by her
nearness, I’d nearly been beguiled by her talk of choices. But I saw clearly
now all that was foolish. Some things go beyond choice. Some deeds have such
power and resonance that they become your own nature, and eclipse everything
else you do. Delilah didn’t understand that. Because part of me cared about
her, and always would, I was glad she could indulge such illusions, and took
some quiet pride in maintaining them for her. What I couldn’t, and wouldn’t
do, was share them.
I stopped at an Internet café with no great hope and checked the Kanezaki
bulletin board. Still nothing. I stared at the empty text box for a few
moments, unsurprised. I would just have to go on to the next target. It felt
natural. It felt like fate.
At another café, I checked on Hilger. There was a message waiting, as I had
expected. I smiled to myself, ruefully. You see? I thought, as though I was
talking to Delilah. You see?
A name, Michael Accinelli. A timetable: five days again. Shit. I wondered what
the short fuses meant. For now, no way to know. I supposed I should count
myself lucky that Hilger hadn’t made the deadline even sooner, after learning
how quickly I’d managed to do Jannick.
There was a business address in Mineola, New York; a home address in Sands
Point, New York. I didn’t recognize the name of either town. Phone numbers.
The make and model of the cars he drove—a 2007 Mercedes S600 and a 2007 Range
Rover HSE—along with license plate numbers. Several photos of a fit-looking
guy in his late fifties, with a full head of steel-gray hair and dark,
piercing eyes. In one of the shots, Accinelli was wearing an expensive-looking
charcoal chalk-striped suit; a white, spread collared shirt; a navy tie; and a
white linen handkerchief. He was sitting, both hands folded on a knee, leaning
forward slightly, smiling confidently. Very chairman of the board, and in fact
the photo looked like something lifted from a corporate brochure or website.
In the other photos, he was behind a lectern in similar business attire,
probably at an investors’ conference or some industry event.
I Googled him. The first hit was for a company called Global Pyrochemical
Industries, and sure enough, there was the shot of Accinelli in the charcoal
suit, right on the home page. He was indeed the chairman of the board, and the
CEO, too. I clicked on his bio: born and raised in Oyster Bay, Long Island,

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1950; graduated with honors from West Point, 1972; served in Grenada, Panama,
and the first Gulf War, winning a Silver Star in the second of the three
conflicts; retired from the Army a bird colonel after twenty years of service.
Founded GPI in 1993, took it public in 2001.
I wondered about Iraq. That was Hilger’s war, too. Could be a coincidence;
could be a connection. A long shot, but I tried searching for
Hilger/Accinelli. Nothing. Likewise Jannick/Accinelli and Jannick/Hilger.
Well, maybe Kanezaki could do better.
GPI described itself as a specialty chemical supplier to companies all over
the world. They had four product lines: intermediates for pharmaceuticals;
automotive airbags; industrial cellulosic polymers; and pyrotechnic and
military. I didn’t know much about any of it. The only applications I
recognized were car airbags, and the various military uses: rocket propellant,
explosives, white phosphorus grenades.
I checked on the business and home addresses. Mineola was on Long Island,
about twenty-five miles east of Manhattan. Sands Point was ten miles north of
Mineola, on the north shore of Long Island at the tip of the Port Washington
peninsula. Mineola sounded solidly middle class; Sands Point, on the other
hand, apparently was the model for the town of East Egg in The Great Gatsby.
Fitzgerald’s mansion was still there, I discovered, on Hoff-stots Lane, and
was currently for sale for $28 million. It seemed Accinelli had done well with
GPI. He certainly wasn’t living in Sands Point on his military pension.
Manhattan made me think of Midori, living in Greenwich Village with our son,
Koichiro. He would be…about two and a half now. I’d seen him only once, a year
earlier, and after Midori’s betrayal I knew there was no way I could have
either of them in my life. A permanent gulf was best for all of us, even, much
as it saddened me to admit it, for Koichiro. I thought of him, of course, late
at night, when sleep wouldn’t come, and the way he looked and felt the one
time I had held him in my arms. Sometimes I would open up a small vein of hope
about the far-off future, and imagine going to him, explaining who I was,
building a relationship, however uncertain, being part of his life. Those
tenuous hopes and fragile aspirations seemed ridiculous now, weak and naive in
equal measure, and I could have laughed at myself for ever having indulged
them.
Sands Point had its own website, which boasted that the community was entirely
residential: just eight hundred fifty families; a few houses of worship; a
primary and a secondary school; and unsurprisingly, a country club with an
eighteen-hole golf course. The country club was called the Village Club, and I
had a strong suspicion that Accinelli, an ethnic kid who had grown up on the
other side of the tracks in nearby Oyster Bay and then gone on to make
something of himself, would be a member. I checked the club’s website. There
was no directory of members, but there was a collection of photos from a
recent New Year’s Eve party, Accinelli prominent in several of them. An
attractive woman of about his age, whom I assumed was his wife, was on his arm
in all the photos. The people around them were well dressed, looked well fed,
and must certainly have been blessed by fortune. I made them as low-tax
Republicans and limousine liberals. Probably there was more to them than that,
but the shorthand would get me started as I determined how to invisibly
infiltrate their society.
I thought about posting the information to Kanezaki. The sooner he had the
name of the second target, the sooner he could apply the new data to the nexus
we were trying to build with Hilger, and, by extension, Dox. There wasn’t an
obvious connection to the CIA, as there had been with Jannick, but…I hated the
thought of tipping off a government agency to an impending hit, even if the
tip-off was to someone with a good track record, like Kanezaki. It was just
too dangerous. I decided to play it by ear again. Worst case, I’d tell him
immediately afterward, and find a way to placate him, as I had before.
Because I had accessed the bulletin board and then researched Accinelli from
computers in L.A., I had to assume Hilger might now be able to place me here.
I imagined how he would try to anticipate me, if that’s what he wanted to do:

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He’s coming from L.A. The most obvious airport would be LAX, but of course
there’s Orange County, too, and Burbank. On the other end, JFK, La Guardia,
and Newark are all pretty much equally possible. I haven’t given him much
time, so assume he goes straight to the airport after accessing the bulletin
board…
No. With a minimum of three airports on either side, the whole thing was too
unpredictable. He couldn’t narrow it down enough to make it operational, not
unless he had a small army of people to rotate through all three possible
destination airports for surveillance of multiple incoming arrivals. Even so,
as always, I would assume the presence of a welcoming party, and use extra
caution leaving whatever airport I flew into.
I purged the nav system for a last time, input LAX as my next destination, and
returned the car at the airport. I caught a bus to the terminal, where I
discovered that United offered three red-eyes: two to JFK and another to
Newark. First class was sold out on the JFK-bound flights, but there was one
first-class seat left on the 10:30 to Newark. I bought a ticket, spent two
hours reading the latest Economist in the departure lounge, and slept for a
few hours before arriving in Newark at six-thirty the following morning.
I waited in the arrivals area with my carry-on after getting off the plane,
until the passengers from my flight had cleared out. Among the people who
remained, all presumably waiting for other flights, no one set off my radar,
but there was no way yet to be sure. I started walking toward the baggage
area, and no one followed me out. So far, so good.
I took the tram to another terminal and noted again I wasn’t followed. If
someone was waiting for me, he was outside the terminal, not inside. That, or
they had enough manpower for a static approach. Regardless, there were a few
more things I could do to make sure.
I went to a pay phone and used the Yellow Pages to find a place called Image
Rent-A-Car that specialized in exotics. I was looking to rent a Mercedes for a
few days, I told them, the S Class. Did they have one I could pick up today?
Unfortunately, the Mercedes rentals were all out, the helpful gentleman on the
other end informed me. But they could have a navy 2006 BMW 750Li delivered to
me in most places in the tristate area in less than an hour—four days, four
hundred free miles, seventeen hundred fifty dollars. I told him the BMW would
do, and that I’d be happy to come to him, if he could give me an address.
I went outside, and the East Coast winter cold hit me immediately. I felt my
nostrils prickle, and a sudden wind cut right through the cashmere blazer I
was wearing. I wanted to hunch my shoulders and jam my hands in my pockets,
but didn’t, in case I’d missed something and needed to react quickly. I
scanned the area as I moved. There were people around, getting in and out of
cars, fumbling with luggage, but no danger signals. Damn, it was cold. The
airport workers were all in gloves and hats and bulky parkas, and the exhaust
coming from cars and taxis was billowing out as white steam. I’d have to pick
up some warmer clothing as soon as I could.
I got in a cab and, in a thick Japanese accent, told the driver I was
concerned my suspicious wife was following me. Could he take a strange route
so I could make sure she wasn’t?
“Anything you want, buddy,” he said. “I’ll just put it on the meter.”
I smiled, slipping on the leather gloves I had bought in Mountain View, and
thought, I love New York.

ONE HOUR, TWO CABS, and a foot route later, confident I was clean, I picked up
the BMW. Among the mansions of Sands Point, it would be familiar, comforting,
and invisible. I threw my bag in the trunk, turned the seat warmer on high,
plugged Accinelli’s work coordinates into the nav system, and followed the
directions out to Long Island.
It was Sunday morning, so traffic was light, and the trip took about an hour.
Global Pyrochemical Industries was on a four-lane road called the East Jericho
Turnpike, which sliced east to west through a mixed residential neighborhood
about a mile south of the Long Island Expressway. The immediate area consisted

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of modest single-family houses, compressed into regular clusters alongside one
another, set slightly back from their streets on small, rectangular patches of
lawn. There were a few apartment buildings; a school and a baseball field;
train tracks and a lumberyard. East Jericho itself was zoned for businesses:
real estate and other professional buildings; an office-supply store;
restaurants; a bowling alley. And, at the east end of it, six H-shaped
buildings, arranged in two rows of three, surrounded by a chain-link fence
topped with razor wire. Global Pyrochemical Industries.
I drove past, looking for anything that smelled of a setup. With Accinelli as
the target, it wouldn’t be difficult for Hilger to predict my fundamental
moves, such as initial surveillance of the target’s workplace and residence.
There could be a team here, waiting for me. But for now, nothing set off my
radar.
Operationally, I wasn’t wild about what I saw. First, the parking lot was
accessible only through a gated station, currently manned by a guard. Probably
a rent-a-cop, possibly half asleep, true, but it complicated things. And the
presence of all that razor wire, and the fence, and the access control, and of
course the guard, all hinted at other measures I would prefer not to
encounter.
I drove through the area, getting a feel for it. I noted some possibilities,
all involving setting up in a nearby parking lot and waiting to tail
Accinelli’s Mercedes when I saw it leave the premises. The one advantage of
the controlled access meant there was only one place I had to key on to know
when he was coming and going. Well, it was a start. I decided to take a look
at his home.
Sands Point turned out to be possibly the most moneyed town I’d ever seen.
Mansion after mansion on plots the size of small countries, some of them set
so far back from the road they were nearly invisible through the bare branches
of all the winter trees. Because the town was set on the Port Washington
peninsula, many of the homes fronted Long Island Sound and had their own
marinas, the better to dock, of course, private sailboats and yachts. The cars
I saw were all Mercedeses, BMWs, and Lexuses, along with one antique Bentley,
and I was glad to have a ride that felt at home among them.
I was on high alert as I approached Accinelli’s house, on a quiet, tree-lined
road called Hilldale Lane. If Hilger had decided to set up a welcoming
reception, the area around the residence would be a key choke point. But the
street was entirely quiet. I rolled up just past the driveway and took a peek.
Accinelli’s was one of the town’s more modest dwellings, but his home was
still a mansion by any definition: a massive, Romanesque-style building of
gray stone set a hundred yards back from the road; a rolling, manicured lawn,
frosted over now, with a circular driveway cutting through it; old growth
trees and plots of flower gardens, empty now but for a few hardy perennials
hanging grimly on in the frozen dirt. The air of the place was ease, a relaxed
confidence in the rightness of the natural order, money and status untouchable
by the vicissitudes of the outside world.
Next to the house was a detached two-car garage of the same stone as the main
structure. At the driveway’s center, at the front of the house, there was a
stone portico, and under it, a black Mercedes S Class, the 2007. The way it
was parked, I couldn’t see the license plate, but most likely it was his. Was
someone coming, going, or did they typically just park the car there? No,
there was no frost on the windows, so it hadn’t been there all night. Someone
had just come from somewhere, some errand, maybe, maybe grocery shopping, and
they had parked the car in front of the house to carry something inside.
Just then, the front door opened and I saw Accinelli. Son of a bitch. I eased
off the brake and let the BMW roll forward. But not before I saw what he was
carrying: golf clubs.
He hadn’t looked out toward the street, and I didn’t think he’d noticed me.
Even if he had, I doubted he would have made anything of a fancy BMW driving
past. I kept driving, thinking, weighing the possibilities. I hadn’t expected
anything actionable to happen so fast—I had planned only on a drive-by, a

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get-acquainted-with-the-neighborhood visit—but this looked like too good an
opportunity to pass up.
Golf clubs suggested an outing, and the clothes he’d been wearing…it hadn’t
fully registered at first, but he was in black-and-gray polypropylene or
something similar, zipped to the neck. “Technical gear,” some of the
sporting-goods outfitters like to call it, a fancy way of saying cold-weather
sporting clothes. Yeah. He was on his way to the links.
Shit, I didn’t remember the address of his club. If I did, I could have gotten
ahead of him, which is almost always preferable to tracking from behind. The
Village Club, it was called, but where was it? As I drove back down Hilldale,
then right on Middle Neck, the same way I had come in, I looked for local
points of interest on the nav system. Country clubs, country clubs, come on… I
couldn’t find it. Okay, the hell with it, plan B.
I pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped. If Accinelli came this way, I’d
let him go right past me, then fall in behind. A few minutes of a big BMW
behind him, especially if he were heading to Sands Point’s golf club, as I
expected, wouldn’t alarm him. And if he went the other way on Middle Neck, I
would just swing around and follow him in the other direction.
Sudden paranoia jolted me: what if the Hilger team I’d been so watchful for
turned out to be Accinelli? Maybe they know each other from the war. Maybe
Accinelli owes a favor. Hilger tells him roughly when to expect me; Accinelli
watches the road from the house, with the car warmed up; he sees me, then
walks out pretending not to, with a golf club bag that’s actually holding a
12-gauge shotgun loaded with sabot slugs.
I scanned the area. A black SUV was coming toward me down Middle Neck, and I
started to get that deep-down Oh, fuck feeling. I held down the brake with my
left foot and put my right over the gas, ready to floor it if the SUV slowed,
or sped up, or swerved. But it didn’t, and as it came closer I could see the
occupants were just an elderly couple. Shit, they were probably on their way
to church.
I let the SUV pass and checked the rearview. There was the Mercedes, pulling
out of Hilldale and making a left on Middle Neck, away from me. For a moment,
I’d been so keyed up that I was surprised he wasn’t coming at me. Then I
realized I was being ridiculous. What was Accinelli going to do, blow someone
away from his own car a hundred yards out from his $10 million home, right in
front of the horrified neighbors? No. Hilger might have been trying to set me
up, but it wouldn’t be that way.
I did a U-turn on Middle Neck and followed from about a hundred fifty yards
back. It was a long, straight road that gradually curved from east to south,
and tailing him from far back was easy. I continued to scan for surprises as I
drove.
After about two miles, Accinelli made a left onto Thayer Lane. Thayer, right,
now I remembered, that was the address of the club. I followed along behind
him. About eight hundred yards up, Thayer curved around to the right and I
lost sight of him for a moment. Then I came around the curve, too, and saw
Accinelli’s car again, stopped next to an island with a guard post at the
center of it. Beyond the post was a parking lot; beyond the parking lot, a
compound of enormous tile-roofed brick buildings that I remembered from the
website comprised the former estate of Isaac Guggenheim. This was it, then,
the entrance to the club. Accinelli moved forward past the post. I swung
around on Thayer and headed back out.
I recognized there was an opening here, if I could move fast enough to exploit
it. I input the coordinates for Midtown Manhattan into the nav system.
Twenty-five miles. Allowing time for parking and the purchase I planned to
make, with just a little luck and light traffic I could be back here in not
much more than an hour and a half.
I took the Long Island Expressway west as fast as I could without risking a
ticket. What was Accinelli planning today—nine holes, or eighteen? And how
long would he be playing regardless? Surely no less than two hours, even for a
shorter game. And it would be lunchtime after that. Maybe he’d grab a bite at

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the club. Maybe this was a Sunday ritual for him, leaving his wife a golf
widow, spending two, three, maybe four hours on the links, and with his
cronies thereafter. It made sense. Anyone who played in these temperatures had
to be a fanatic.
Maybe. But of course I couldn’t really know. There was no time to hone in on
his patterns, and all my suppositions were just that. But with only five days
to work with, I had to exploit whatever openings presented themselves, no
matter how narrow.
It took me less than forty minutes to reach the Spy Shop on 34th between Third
and Lexington. I remembered it, along with a few other handy places, from the
last time I’d reconnoitered New York. Predictably, there were no parking
spaces anywhere nearby. I considered parking illegally—I was going to be in
the store for only a few minutes—but decided it wasn’t worth the admittedly
small risk of having the BMW’s presence here logged in a New York City law
enforcement database. I found a garage around the corner, gave the attendant a
twenty to keep the car on the main floor for fifteen minutes, and jogged over
to the Spy Shop. It was a bit warmer now than when I’d arrived that morning,
but I was still going to have to make time to buy some proper clothes when I
had a chance.
The store was well outfitted with various options for vehicle tracking, overt
and surreptitious. I chose a top-of-the-line model I was familiar with, the
Pro Trak Digital, a magnetically emplace-able real-time GPS system, and was
suddenly down another twenty-six hundred dollars. Along with warm clothes, I
was going to have to find a bank.
I picked up the car and headed back to the Village Club. Traffic was
manageable again and I made good time. While I drove, I unpacked the unit,
placed the eight D cells I had also bought into the battery pack, assembled
everything, and tested it for power. It all seemed to be working. I put the
unit in the glove box and stuffed the empty packaging under the passenger
seat. I was wearing the gloves, not just because of the weather, but to keep
my prints off the device, too.
As I turned onto Thayer Lane again, exactly ninety-seven minutes after I’d
left it, I started thinking in Japanese, like my good friend Yamada, who this
time was being transferred to New York and would live on Long Island. Like
many Japanese, I was an ardent golfer, and relished the chance to become a
member of a top club for less than the million dollars entry cost in Japan. I
was hoping to take a look at the Village Club because it sounded so good on
the Internet…. Would that be all right?
I pulled up to the guard post and rolled down the window. The guy inside,
about seventy with ruddy cheeks and fading blue eyes, leaned toward me, away
from a portable space heater. Something about him felt like retired law
enforcement, but I took in the impression only in the most fleeting mental
shorthand. I was too deeply in character to consciously consider anything
operational, although of course I was still aware of and responsive to it.
He looked me over, and again in some compartmented part of my consciousness I
realized he wasn’t used to seeing Asians pull in here. “May I help you, sir?”
he asked.
“Yes, please,” I said, in the thickest Japanese accent I could muster, with an
accompanying helpless, timid expression. “I move soon Long Island. Want club
member become. Can pick up…brochure here?”
The guard smiled. Amazing the generosity of spirit a little helplessness can
bring out in some people. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “The main facility is
directly in front of you. Just park anywhere you can find a spot and they’ll
help you inside.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, nodding. The gate went up and I drove forward,
my heart starting to beat hard.
The parking lot was on my right. I pulled in, driving slowly through. Damn, it
was full. The place was popular.
Black Mercedeses weren’t exactly in short supply in the parking lot, and I had
a couple of false starts before seeing each time that the license plate of the

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car I was looking at was wrong. But the third time proved to be the charm.
There was Accinelli’s car, in one of the lot’s center spaces, next to a deep
green Aston Martin Vanquish S. Perfect.
I kept going until I found an open spot, at the farthest edge of the lot. I
parked and took the unit out of the glove box. The battery pack and
accessories went into my front pockets. The GPS and cellular modem housing I
tucked into the back of my pants, under the jacket. I took two quick breaths
and got out of the car.
I walked slowly, my breath fogging in the cold, swiveling my head as though
taking in the view of the lovely golf course and grounds surrounding the lot.
In fact, I was checking for people. The cold was on my side at the moment—it
wasn’t the sort of day anyone sane would linger in a parking lot. And if there
were people waiting in one of the cars for some reason, they’d certainly have
the engine running, with a billow of exhaust rising up from the tailpipe.
No, the lot was empty. It was lunchtime; that was also on my side. I reached
Accinelli’s car, scanned it and the surrounding vehicles to ensure I hadn’t
missed anyone, then took a step in next to the Vanquish, easing the GPS unit
from my waistband as I moved. I doubted I was the first person to pause for a
closer look at that gorgeous emerald of a race car. It was built to be ogled
as much as to be driven.
I leaned closer, my hands on my thighs, then dropped into a squat. I pivoted,
and in less than fifteen seconds, had emplaced the main unit and battery pack
on the Mercedes’ undercarriage, the GPS antenna to the underside of the rear
bumper, and the miniature cellular antenna underneath the side skirting. I
glanced around from the squat and saw no one, then stood and, for the benefit
of anyone who might just possibly have seen me disappear for a moment, shook
my head at the Vanquish one last time in envious admiration.
For form’s sake, I continued on toward the main building. Continue all the way
through with the charade, or pull out now? There were risks and benefits both
ways. The more time I spent here and the more people I engaged, the greater
the chance I would be remembered. On the other hand, if that former cop of a
guard asked anyone inside about a Japanese visitor looking for a brochure, it
would look odd if no one remembered me.
I decided there was less risk in just killing five minutes walking along the
golf course, then waving my thanks to the guard as I left. I had parked so far
down that I was out of his view in any event.
I strolled along the access road, my hands in my pockets, shoes crunching the
frozen gravel, breath fogging, ears numb. A group of four well-insulated
diehards was leaving the course in my direction, golf bags slung over their
backs. I kept my head down, and from the cadences of their conversation as
they passed I sensed they had paid me no mind.
I stopped at the edge of the access road and admired the green for three
minutes, freezing my ass off. Then I turned around and headed back to the BMW.
I waved to the guard as I drove past, but he seemed not even to notice. His
attention was directed at cars coming in, not ones that were leaving.
There were a few things I still needed, things I could probably find in the
suburbs, but I wanted to do the bulk of my shopping in the more anonymous
city. So I drove back, stopping first at a military-surplus store I
knew—Galaxy, on Sixth Avenue between 30th and 31st. I went inside, and emerged
fifteen minutes later wearing polypropylene long underwear under a new pair of
jeans and a wool turtleneck sweater; wool socks and work boots; a black wool
watch cap and a navy peacoat; and a pair of ski gloves. Thank God. I also had
on a pair of sports shades, the swept-back style bikers and marathoners use,
which would cut the winter glare and, not coincidentally, obscure my
appearance. In my pocket was a Victorinox Swiss Army knife with a four-inch
blade. Not exactly a fighting knife, but the kind of tool I preferred was hard
to find in New York and this was better than nothing. The clothes I’d been
wearing I carried in a store bag, along with a few extra pairs of socks and
underwear.
Next, I stopped at a Citibank ATM for a cash infusion. Then a low-end men’s

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clothing store for a shirt, jacket, and tie, and another pair of sunglasses,
this time with large, round lenses that would hide my eyes and change the
contours of my face. Finally, the Apple store on Fifth Avenue, where I used
one of the store’s computers to check the Kanezaki bulletin board. Nothing. I
wondered whether he really was coming up empty, or whether he was holding back
from me, the way I was from him. No way to know. And nothing to do about it.
But it was still irritating as hell.
Now that I was properly outfitted and had a little time, I realized how hungry
I was. I hadn’t eaten since the plane. I walked two blocks west to the
Carnegie Deli and, over a tureen of chicken soup and a roast beef sandwich
that could have faced down Godzilla, I configured the iPhone to work with the
GPS transmitter. By the time I was washing down a gigantic slice of apple pie
with a second cup of coffee, I had everything up and running, and checked
Accinelli’s position. I had expected to find him still at the club, or perhaps
back home. Instead, I was surprised to see that he, or his car, anyway, was
right here in Manhattan. I zoomed in on the location—downtown, corner of
Bowery and Prince. I watched for three minutes, but the car didn’t move. Okay,
a fair bet he wasn’t at a light or stuck in traffic. The car was parked.
I paid the check and went back to the garage where I’d left the BMW. I headed
down Broadway, the iPhone plugged into the cigarette lighter, faceup on the
passenger seat en route. The Mercedes didn’t move.
I made a left on Spring, then another left on Bowery. I drifted north a block,
and there, on the east side of Bowery just north of Prince, a parking lot. I
didn’t see Accinelli’s car as I drove past, but according to the transmitter
it was there.
I parked in another lot three blocks north of Houston and walked south back
down Bowery, the watch cap pulled low, the shades in place. Thick traffic
rolled by in both directions, and I heard engines and tires on pavement, the
sounds somehow amplified, compressed by the dull background roar of the wider
city. Down the street, someone laid on a horn, and three horns answered, like
some bizarre mating call. A truck was backing up to a loading bay on 1st
Street, beeping loudly and incessantly enough to warn all Manhattan. Two men
stood behind it, gesturing to guide it in.
I slowed when I reached the lot. An attendant manned a booth at the front.
Behind him were eight rows of cars, parked grill to tail, each about five
deep. And there was Accinelli’s Mercedes, second from the front of one of the
rows.
The cars were clustered tightly to use as much of the small lot as possible.
When you came for your vehicle, they’d have to move others to access it.
Meaning they would ask when you were returning, so they could put short-timers
up front and latecomers farther back, and thereby minimize the need to shift
vehicles every time a customer arrived for his car. Wherever Accinelli was, he
wasn’t planning on staying long.
I circled the block on foot, considering. There was no way I could act here.
Too many people, too much light, too little control over the environment. I
supposed it would have been too much to ask for Accinelli to be parked in some
deserted spot in the Meadowlands.
Still, it might be useful to see which direction he came from when he returned
to his car. I would have a good view of the parking lot from up to a block
north on Bowery and from up to a block south, and from as far away as a block
west on Prince. I checked my watch and began slowly walking a T pattern along
the two streets. I figured I could keep it up for an hour before someone might
find the behavior suspicious. This was New York, after all. If I’d been near a
high-value terror target, the Time Warner building at Columbus Circle or the
New York Stock Exchange, for example, I wouldn’t have risked loitering. But on
a cold Sunday afternoon just north of Little Italy, I didn’t expect any
problems.
As it happened, I didn’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes after I’d started
the T pattern, as I was heading west on Prince, Accinelli made a left from
Mott, just a block away and walking briskly toward me on the other side of the

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street. He was still in the black-and-gray polypropylene golf attire. I kept
my face away from him and turned left onto Elizabeth before we reached each
other. Then, when he’d passed my position, I turned around and headed north on
Elizabeth, back to the BMW. There was no particular hurry now; I could track
him remotely from the iPhone.
I did. I stayed behind him, hoping for a crazy, random opportunity, a toilet
break at a highway rest stop, something like that, but he didn’t stop or turn
off, he just headed straight home. As we proceeded, I fell farther and farther
behind, and I realized he was speeding. I didn’t want to risk going more than
nine miles an hour over the limit, and I estimated Accinelli was doing
something like eighty-five, maybe better. Either the speeding was habitual for
him, or he was in a hurry.
I tracked him to Sands Point, but didn’t follow him all the way to his house.
There was no benefit to doing so. I already knew it wasn’t a good place to get
to him, although if I had to choose between his office and his home, I
marginally preferred the latter. With the GPS tracker in place, though, I had
a feeling I’d find an opening somewhere else. It was just a question of when.
21
I HEADED BACK toward New York, thinking. The sun was beginning to get low in
the sky. Stay in the city? I knew it better than Long Island, but I wanted to
be close to Accinelli so I could react quickly if an opportunity presented
itself.
I stopped at a gas station and found a hotel called the Andrew in the phone
booth Yellow Pages. It was in Great Neck—about five miles equidistant from
Accinelli’s home and office. That would work. I called the hotel and confirmed
they had a room, but didn’t make a reservation. The room would probably still
be available later, and I’m always more comfortable denying a potential
datapoint to the opposition.
I decided to drive back into New York. I could check the bulletin boards
anonymously there, and I doubted Accinelli would be going out again today. I
monitored the transmitter just in case, but his car stayed put on Hilldale
Lane.
Part of my mind wanted to go to Dox, but I wouldn’t let it. There was nothing
I could do for him that I wasn’t doing already, and imagining his
circumstances was just going to wear me down. I needed to stay sharp, keep
doing what I was doing, and get the job done.
Delilah. My thoughts wanted to drift to her, too. I found myself remembering
the Bel-Air, remembering it with regret, and with longing. I shook my head,
irritated at my weakness. Let it go, I said to myself. Forget her. Focus.
I rubbed my eyes. I was just tired, that was all. A good night’s sleep and I’d
be okay again. First the bulletin boards and then fuck it, I was done for the
day.
I entered the city through the Queens Midtown Tunnel. I didn’t have any
particular destination; pretty much any couple of Internet cafés would do. I
went south on Park Avenue, then drifted down Broadway. It was only when I was
heading west on Ninth, toward Greenwich Village, that I realized where I was
going. To Midori, and Koichiro.
Oh come on, I thought. What are you doing? Don’t you have enough to deal with
right now?
Yeah, but I was so close. I’d been aware of it the moment I stepped into the
frigid New Jersey air outside Newark airport. And it wasn’t like I was going
to ring her bell or anything. I would just…park, for a few minutes. Near her
apartment on Christopher Street. I wouldn’t even get out of the car. I would
just sit, and think, and feel what it felt like to be near my son. That wasn’t
so much, was it? People did stranger things. They went to grave sites, and
knelt in front of tombstones, and ornamented the earth above the bones with
flowers, and why, if not to establish some frail communion with the shifting
shadows of memory? This would be like that. Just a little while. To feel him
nearby. To decant and briefly savor the vanished moment when I held that small
child in my arms.

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I saw an open space just east of Waverly and decided it was an omen. I parked
the car and angled the side mirror so I had a view of her apartment, a
seventeen-story prewar building a block away. It was cold the last time I had
been here, the way it was now. I remembered everything from that last time. I
remembered every word.
When he’s old enough, I’ll tell him you’re dead. That’s what I was planning to
do anyway, after tonight. And you are. You really are.
And was he old enough, now? Had she already told him the father who now sat
not a hundred yards away died before he was born, and so for the son had never
even existed?
I sighed. It was Koichiro I wanted to think of, not Midori. I thought of a
line I’d once read somewhere: You forget the things you want to remember and
remember the things you want to forget.
What the hell was I doing, anyway. It was going to be dark soon. I was tired,
and I wanted to be up at dawn in case Accinelli was an early riser. I should
go.
But I lingered a few minutes more, watching the building, watching the windows
I knew were hers, wishing I could undo the past and make a different present.
Just a few tweaks, a few different decisions, and maybe I would be walking up
to the doorman now, announcing myself, a present under my arm, knowing my son
and his mother were expecting me and eager for my arrival.
I glanced at the iPhone screen. Accinelli’s car hadn’t moved. All right, it
was time for me to go. Check the bulletin boards, a quick bite, then sleep.
I looked up and saw a couple walking down Christopher toward me on the other
side of the street, a small child between them. They were all wearing hats and
gloves in the cold, an Asian woman and a Caucasian man, and the child was
laughing, swinging by their arms. I blinked and looked harder, then, instinct
kicking in, slumped lower in my seat. It was Midori. And the child was
Koichiro.
My heart started hammering. I glanced out again, conflicted, wanting to watch,
wanting to hide, wanting to get out of the car, afraid to, resentful that I
couldn’t, ashamed of my hesitation. And who was the white guy, walking with
Midori, holding my son’s hand?
I sat there, slumped and cowering and impotent, and watched as they passed me
on the other side of the street, then as they stood talking in front of
Midori’s apartment. After a minute, the man leaned in and kissed her. It
wasn’t a long kiss, but there was an intimacy to it, a familiarity, that
enraged me. The man leaned over and said something to Koichiro, smiling.
Koichiro laughed, and the man turned and walked away. Midori and Koichiro
watched him for a moment, then went into the building.
The rage drained suddenly out of me, replaced by a hard, cold clarity. The man
was on foot. I could leave the car here, get out right now and follow him. I
was already wearing a hat and sunglasses, so no one would remember my face.
And gloves, so there wouldn’t be prints. I didn’t need any time, or any
special control over the environment because nothing had to look natural. I
didn’t want it to look natural, I wanted it to look like what it would be,
like some faceless anonymous someone came up behind him and broke his neck and
was walking away unnoticed before the body even hit the pavement.
Midori would know, of course. But what could she do? She had no way of finding
me. How could she punish me? Keep me from Koichiro, maybe? Tell him I was
dead? Go ahead, tell him that, if you haven’t already. I’ll show you what dead
really is.
I watched him in the side-view, walking down Christopher. Maybe he was taking
the subway. Follow him down the stairs, then close around the corner, no one
in front of us, bam, drop him and keep moving, up another set of stairs to the
street again. Back to the car and gone like a ghost five minutes after.
Okay. I got out, locked the door, put the iPhone and keys in my pocket, and
headed smoothly after him. I wasn’t angry now. It didn’t feel personal. It was
just a job, like always. And I knew how to do it.
He was fifty yards up the street, moving quickly in the cold. He crossed to

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the other side of Christopher at Seventh Avenue, heading south. My gut told me
he was going to the Sheridan Square subway station. Walking more quickly, I
cut over onto Grove to intercept him.
He passed right in front of me when I was ten yards from West 4th Street. I
fell in behind him, closing the distance. I logged my surroundings: moderate
traffic on Seventh Avenue, none at all on West 4th. A handful of pedestrians
going both ways on West 4th, talking, laughing, the usual New York polyglot.
Storefronts, empty. Nothing out of place. It was near twilight now, and cold.
People had their heads down, they were hurrying home to dinner, or even just
to get inside. Nobody was going to notice, much less remember, one man in a
watch cap and shades in the midst of the vast metropolis.
Sure enough, he took the stairs at the Sheridan Square subway entrance. I
rotated my neck, cracking the joints, taking a last look behind me as I hit
the stairs. All clear.
I followed him down, taking the ground noiselessly along the outer edges of my
boot soles, my heart pounding now. Five steps behind. Four. Three.
He turned the corner. I glanced behind. Empty. I followed him around. Empty. I
took a step closer. The range was perfect. Reach for his face with one hand,
the other in his lower back. Pull him onto his heels, circle the neck, arch,
crack, drop, done.
I was an eye blink away, a routine electrical command, a single fired synapse.
In a thousand parallel universes, I did it and it was already done.
But here, in this life, I hesitated. In my eyes, I saw an empty subway station
corridor and a perfect moment to act; in my mind, I saw Koichiro, laughing at
whatever the man had said to him. My breath caught in my throat and my hands
froze half outstretched in front of me. I stopped, my stomach clenching, my
shoulders rolling forward as though at war with my rooted feet.
I watched him move down the corridor and turn another corner. Then he was
gone.
I walked back to the car on unsteady legs. I got inside, slumped in the seat,
put my face in my hands, and was suddenly convulsed in tears.
Maybe the man was like a father to Koichiro, or would be. Maybe he was as
close to a father as my son would ever know. And I was about to take that
away. Because I could? Because it would numb some hurt part of me?
I stayed there for a long time, feeling confused and helpless and miserable.
Finally I got it under control. I fired up the car and drove away and I didn’t
look back.
22
I FOUND A COUPLE Internet cafés and checked the bulletin boards. Nothing on
either. Then, on foolish impulse, I Googled: “Jan Jannick bicycle Palo Alto.”
The first hit was a front-page article in the Palo Alto Daily News. A bizarre
accident, the article reported. Bicycle. Night. Rain. A tragedy. Jannick was
survived by a wife and two small children, a boy and girl, all of whom were
being cared for by relatives during this difficult time.
I purged the browser and rubbed my eyes. No choice, I reminded myself. It was
Jannick or Dox. Jannick or Dox.
I stopped at a place called Katz’s Delicatessen at Houston and Ludlow. The
food was good, but I ate with neither hunger nor relish, only to keep my body
going. Finally, I drove out to Great Neck and checked in at the Andrew, where
I took the hottest bath I could stand, trying to boil the tension out of
myself.
I lay in bed afterward, exhausted but unable to sleep. A thousand fragmented
images and voices pressed close inside my head, each a hungry demon, gnawing
at my mind. Then, in the midst of that mental cacophony, I heard a single
voice, Delilah’s, telling me about choice, how it was within me to make the
right one, that it was my choices that would make me who and what I am. I
seized on her voice, followed it, and it began to drown out the others.
And then, for the second time that evening, my eyes filled with tears, this
time at the tenuous, terrifying hope that maybe Delilah had been right. That,
improbably, even accidentally, I had proved her right. And that, if I could do

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it once, I could do it another time. And another after that.
You can, I told myself, again and again, my lips forming the words like a
prayer, an incantation. You can. You can. And, breathing that silent mantra,
clutching it as though it was my last and only hope, finally, fitfully, I
slept.
23
I GOT UP AT five the next morning. The first thing I did was check the
transmitter. Accinelli’s car hadn’t moved—it was still at his house in Sands
Point. I showered, shaved, and got dressed, then went down to the restaurant
for breakfast. I kept the iPhone open in front of me while I ate, in case
Accinelli moved earlier than I thought likely.
At six o’clock, I started driving circuits on 25A and the Long Island
Expressway between Mineola and Sands Point. At six-thirty, the transmitter
started moving. I wasn’t surprised. Accinelli was a self-made man, with all
the ambition self-made success implied. I hadn’t expected him to show up and
punch a time clock at nine.
I watched on the iPhone as he came down Searingtown Road, then fell in behind
him on the LIE. Traffic was already thick in the other direction, toward New
York, and I supposed one of the benefits of living in Sands Point and working
in Mineola was that doing so offered him a reverse commute.
As I followed him I hoped, but didn’t really expect, that he might pull over
at a rest stop, or a favorite diner, or some other place where I might find an
opportunistic few minutes alone with him. But he didn’t. From the LIE, he went
south on the Northern State Parkway, then onto East Jericho. By the numbers,
from home to the office. I went past as he waved to the guard in front of the
parking lot, then watched him drive inside.
I picked up some sandwiches and fruit at a supermarket and went back to the
hotel room. If Accinelli didn’t go anywhere until he was done at work, it was
apt to be a long day of watching and waiting.
But at just before eleven o’clock, he moved. I went to the car, watching on
the iPhone as he headed west on the LIE, toward New York. On the
Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I came close enough to spot his car, and stayed
behind him across the Williamsburg Bridge. Downtown again. Interesting.
I followed him onto Delancey, keeping several cars between us. Where are you
going? I wondered. Same place as yesterday?
I expected him to go right on Bowery and park at the lot I’d seen him use the
day before. Instead, he continued onto Kenmare, then made a left on Mott,
going the opposite direction from where I’d spotted him yesterday. Then right
on Broome, right on Crosby, and into a parking lot between Spring and Prince.
And all at once it came together for me. I knew why he was here.
I drove past the lot, made a right onto Houston, then another right onto Mott,
the same block I’d seen him turn off yesterday. I paused at the corner of Mott
and Prince, but didn’t see him coming. If I was wrong, I had already lost him,
and wouldn’t be able to reacquire him until he was moving in the car again.
But I knew I wasn’t wrong. The signs had all been there; I was just too
distracted by thoughts of Midori and Koichiro to put them together.
Accinelli had a mistress.
Why had he still been in his golf clothes when I saw him yesterday? Why was he
hurrying, first on foot, then on the highway? And he hadn’t been shopping
here—he was carrying no packages.
I pictured it: he tells his wife he’ll be golfing at the club, and he will be,
too, because it’s important that he’s seen there, that his buddies will
unintentionally vouch for him, unwittingly provide an alibi. But he’s only
staying for nine holes, not eighteen. The difference creates a two-hour window
for him. He wants to make the most of it, so he doesn’t even change his
clothes. In fact, he wants to stay in the clothes, wants to be wearing them
when he gets home later. And then he stays too long, and hurries to return
before his wife gets suspicious.
And why the different parking lot today? Everything else I’d seen about
Accinelli indicated he was comfortable with patterns—foolishly comfortable, in

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my opinion, because even aside from the fact that Hilger wanted him dead, his
wealth and stature made him an inviting target for kidnapping. But today, he’d
practically driven right past the lot on Bowery, in favor of another that
wasn’t a half-mile away. Why the change, and why only now? Could it be because
he didn’t want to be seen by the same attendant every time he came here?
I’d come across this kind of thing before. When a large part of your job
involves following people surreptitiously, discovering patterns you can
exploit, you see a lot of behavior that goes unnoticed by the outside world.
Drugs. Prostitution. Gambling. Affairs. Closet homosexuality. Addictions and
compulsions, cravings and lust. The real world, the id, the dark constants of
our nature.
Maybe it wasn’t a mistress. Maybe it was a gay lover, or a catamite, or some
such thing. My gut told me a mistress, but it didn’t really matter. What
mattered was that I had a new focal point, one potentially more accessible
than his home or his office.
I crossed Prince and parked in front of a hydrant on the other side of Mott. I
didn’t expect to be more than five minutes, and confirming my suspicions would
be worth the small chance of a ticket, and the even smaller chance that the
BMW’s presence here today would ever be discovered as meaningful.
I got out, the hat and shades already on, and headed north on Mott, my breath
fogging in the cold. Cars and trucks lurched along on Prince in front of me,
gears grinding, the occasional horn honking. I heard children yelling and
laughing somewhere, probably at a nearby school. A construction team was
tearing up a sewer line, and for a moment the explosive pounding of a
jackhammer drowned out everything else. I glanced left at the corner of Prince
and bingo, there he was, wearing a navy suit, coming toward me. The light
across Prince was red, and I was happy to be a good, law-abiding citizen and
wait for it. It gave Accinelli time to make a left on Mott and get ahead of
me.
The light changed. I crossed Prince with a dozen other people and stayed on
the west side of Mott, the opposite side from Accinelli, and therefore the
more likely to escape his notice if he were to glance behind. To my left was a
church, the grounds around it enclosed by an old brick wall. On the right side
of the street, various awnings and signs for ground-level stores and cafés;
above them, fashionable, red brick apartment buildings that had once been
tenements and warehouses, dark fire escapes zigzagging down their façades. I
counted four floors of living space on some of the buildings; others had five.
My eyes tracked everywhere as I walked. Two men and a woman stood smoking and
shivering in front of a place called Café Gitane, but they were too young, too
hipster-looking, and I didn’t make them as a problem. An attractive brunette
in a long leather coat was rolling up the metal gate in front of a store,
opening for the day’s business. She displayed no awareness of anything around
her and again I detected no problems. A bike messenger in dreadlocks and
shades was taking a package from a woman in an apron in the doorway of a
florist called Polux. Like everyone else I’d seen so far, they paid no
attention to the street scene around them. They felt like civilians, and
nothing more.
As he walked, Accinelli reached into his pocket and took out a set of keys.
Right, keys out now for faster entry, don’t want to linger on the street where
you might be seen. About halfway down the street, he turned and went up a
flight of four granite stairs to an apartment building entranceway. He
unlocked the metal framed glass door and went in.
I continued on Mott to Houston, then crossed the street and came back,
checking hot spots. Everything still seemed fine. No good hides for a sniper,
I was glad to see: this stretch of Mott offered no parking; the crosstown
traffic on Houston and Prince rendered untenable a shot from a vehicle farther
away; and with the church grounds across the street from the apartment, the
only accessible windows and rooftops were directly overhead, too sharp an
angle to be useful.
I stopped in front of the building Accinelli had entered. It was sandwiched

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between two stores: a high-fashion men’s clothing consignment shop called INA
Men, and a tiny place called A Détacher that looked equal parts fashion
gallery and couture boutique. If I were Accinelli, paying my mistress’s rent,
I would have selected a spot very much like this, with the church across the
street, so no apartment windows from which someone might look down and see me,
and the easy access to the Williamsburg Bridge and the LIE beyond it. Also,
the nearby boutiques that would provide cover for action if I were seen:
“Yeah, what a surprise running into you here, Bob; right, I’m just buying a
present for the wife at A Détacher. And you?”
I walked up the steps and looked through the door, putting my hands up and my
face close because the light from outside was mirroring the glass. The first
thing I noted was the absence of a doorman. Good for Accinelli—he wouldn’t
want to have to announce or explain himself, or to be noticed or remembered.
And maybe good for me, too.
There was a narrow corridor stretching for about twenty-five feet past a group
of metal mailboxes and back to an elevator. Fluorescent lighting. No cameras I
could see—another plus, from Accinelli’s standpoint.
I stepped back. There were no hinges visible, and there was a push handle on
the left. The door would open inward from that side. To the door’s left was a
metal call box. A few FedEx and postal service signs were taped to it. So
package and mail delivery occurred before—I glanced at my watch—eleven-thirty,
at least today. I counted thirty buttons from among which a visitor would
select to call his host and be buzzed in. Each had a last name next to it. I
read through the list quickly. None of the names meant anything to me, and I
doubted any of them would prove relevant for what came next regardless.
I walked up and down the street twice more, taking in the details: where I—or
someone else—might set up to wait and observe; which stores and cafés would
offer a view of the street; how people were dressed and what they were doing.
The vibe wasn’t quiet, exactly, but it wasn’t bustling, either. It was still a
little early for lunch, and even some of the shops hadn’t yet opened.
Accinelli probably favored visits at this hour as much for the relative lack
of crowds as for the built-in “going out for a business lunch” excuse the time
afforded him.
I went back to the car and was relieved to find that no passing law
enforcement official had noticed my parking peccadillo. I drove around the
block several times, cementing details in my mind, then widened my
perambulations to include more of the neighborhood. Then I found a parking
space on Bleecker Street, where I waited and monitored the transmitter. At
twelve thirty-five, the Mercedes pulled out. I followed from a distance just
in case he stopped somewhere and an opportunity presented itself. But I
doubted he would. As it was, the whole thing could have been a two-hour
“lunch.” I doubted he wanted to be away longer than that.
I was right. He went straight back, pulling past the guard post at one o’clock
sharp.
I drove around for a while, going nowhere in particular, letting all the
details of what I’d just seen—the layout, the openings, the flow, the
risks—run through my mind. Accinelli would be back to his secret spot on Mott
Street, of that I had no doubt. Probably his schedule, and his ability to
fabricate plausible reasons for two-hour absences, would be the only limiting
factors. Lunchtime would typically be convenient. And if a secretary harbored
suspicions about why certain appointments were always made directly, rather
than through her, so what? Did she really want to risk her job through an
indiscreet comment that got back to a powerful man like her boss?
I thought of the bike messenger I’d seen, and felt a plan beginning to cohere.
I started with the general parameters, then built in details. I asked what-if
questions, and played when/then games. I liked what I was coming up with. It
wasn’t perfect, and there were risks. But there always are. I doubted I was
going to have a better opportunity than Mott Street.
I found a bike shop in Great Neck, where I bought the cheapest twelve-speed
they sold, along with a pair of long neoprene biking gloves; a fleece

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balaclava and a helmet to go over it; a nifty side-view mirror called Third
Eye that attached to the earpiece of a pair of sunglasses; and a three-foot,
case-hardened, steel bike chain called the Kryptonite Fahgettaboudit. Next, an
Office Depot, where I bought a large box of styrofoam peanuts. Finally, a
hardware store, where I picked up a file, a paintbrush, and two cans of
paint—black, and mud brown. I wiped down everything and didn’t handle any of
it afterward except with the gloves.
At a nearby park, not far from young mothers pushing their toddlers in
strollers and on swings, I slathered paint all over the bike frame. I started
with the can of black, using little care in my application. I just wanted the
bike to look old, or as though someone had tried to make it a less enticing
target for theft. Later, in a more private setting, I would file down the
serial number until there was a hole in the metal beneath.
I ran the brush back and forth, back and forth, letting my mind drift. Of
course it was impossible not to think of Koichiro. To have just seen him, to
know that he was so near. To be within earshot now of all these young mothers
with their children, hearing them laugh and chat and gossip about goings-on in
the neighborhood. To have read of the fallout, the consequences, of what I’d
done to Jannick.
I opened the can of brown and kept at it, the sun providing a hint of warmth
to the otherwise chill air. Midori’s parents were dead, and she had no
brothers or sisters. If something happened to her, who would take care of
Koichiro? No one but Midori knew I was his father. Even if someone did, there
was no way to find me. What would happen to my son? Who would step forward?
My hand stopped in midstroke and I stood completely still for a moment, frozen
by sudden insight. It had been right in front of me, and I’d missed it. I’d
been too focused on the CIA funding of Jannick’s company, that was the
problem. It seemed like a connection. But it wasn’t impossible that it was
nothing but a distracting coincidence.
Who would step forward? The article said Jannick’s wife and children were
being cared for by relatives. Who, though? Grandparents? Brothers? Sisters?
Uncles? Aunts? Whoever they were, they were like pieces on a chessboard, and
Jannick’s death had rearranged their positions. Maybe that new positioning was
what Hilger was really after.
I finished the bike. As soon as it was dry, I threw it in the trunk and drove
to the Great Neck Public Library, where I posted a message to Kanezaki: What
relatives are staying with Jannick’s family now? Parents, siblings, whoever.
Names, addresses, most of all, their jobs. Cross-reference with everything
else we have. Hilger might have been after a secondary effect.

THE NEXT FORTY-EIGHT HOURS were uneventful. I continued to tail Accinelli, but
he never left the office during the day and always went straight home at
night. I figured he was too busy for an assignation, or couldn’t come up with
a believable excuse. I heard from Kanezaki. He told me he was running down the
leads I had sent him, but that was all.
I started to get concerned. Hilger had given me five days, and I had only one
left. I thought about contacting him, insisting on talking to Dox again. But I
decided not to. Hilger wouldn’t have done anything yet: he needed Dox, at
least until I was finished with Accinelli. Besides, right now, it would be too
easy for him to say no. I wasn’t devoid of leverage, but what I had, I needed
to use sparingly.

ON THE MORNING of the deadline, I was waiting in the BMW near Sara D.
Roosevelt Park, about ten blocks from the Mott Street apartment, watching the
readout on the iPhone. I’d been there since following Accinelli to his office
as always, and so far he hadn’t moved. It was past eleven now, and I was
beginning to think I might have to contact Hilger and tell him I needed more
time. And then, just like that, the little light that represented Accinelli’s
car on the phone started moving. Come on, I thought. Come this way. A little
afternoon delight.

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I watched as he headed west on the LIE, then the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
When I saw him approaching the Williamsburg Bridge, I was sure.
I affixed the little side-view mirror to the shades I had on and stepped out
of the car. Almost every inch of me was covered in something: thermal
underwear, work boots, the wool turtleneck sweater, the peacoat, the
balaclava, the neoprene gloves. I put the chain over my neck, secured the bike
helmet over the balaclava, and set the box of styrofoam peanuts on the ground.
I took the bike out of the trunk, propped it against the car, and looked
around. There were a couple of pickup basketball games going on at the park.
Construction on a nearby street. No one was paying me any attention. I waited
for a break in the traffic, for the intermittent clusters of passing
pedestrians to thin, and then picked up the box by a plastic strap across its
top and walked the bike away from the car. The box was large and awkward, but
with only styrofoam peanuts inside, it weighed almost nothing. I had stripped
off all the labeling; the box was now bare, and there was no way to tell what
was inside it.
Two blocks from the car, I got on the bike and rode it one-handed to Mott,
just another bike messenger in eclectic cold-weather gear, a heavy chain
across my chest, peddling an old bicycle I’d painted ugly like all the
messengers do so no one would want to steal it. I rolled slowly down the
street, checking the hot spots, finding nothing out of place. Like the last
time I was here, daylight mirrored the exterior of the glass door, making the
apartment corridor invisible from the sidewalk. The call box in front of the
apartment was once again festooned with notices from deliverymen, and I
nodded, satisfied to have one less thing to worry about.
I leaned the bike against the wall of the apartment building, to the left of
the door, the side that would open when Accinelli unlocked it. I set the box
down and arranged the chain around the bicycle frame but didn’t actually lock
it. I wouldn’t have cared if someone stole the bike right then, and I
certainly didn’t want to have to waste time unlocking it when this was done. I
just needed something to look busy with for the few minutes I waited for
Accinelli.
I faced north on Mott, expecting him to arrive from the south side as he had
before. The little side-view mirror gave me an excellent view of the street to
my rear. From Accinelli’s standpoint, it would seem that my back was to him,
that I was paying him no attention at all.
A minute later, I saw him turn the corner from Prince, heading toward me on my
side of the street, gradually growing larger in the side view. A hot rush of
adrenaline spread out from my gut and my heart started kicking. I glanced
ahead and saw no problems.
I watched him come closer in the mirror. A charcoal suit today, and a yellow
tie. His keys came out, like last time. Ten yards. Five. Three.
Just as he hit the bottom of the stairs, I straightened and picked up the box,
struggling with it, exaggerating its heft and awkwardness. I turned toward
him. He was at the top of the stairs now. I started up behind him. He put the
key in the door and turned it. I was one step below him now. He pushed the
door open.
“Can you hold that for me for a sec?” I asked, stepping across the threshold
and thereby not giving him much of a choice.
I saw a second’s uncertainty ripple across his expression. Letting a stranger
into a New York apartment building is a no-no. But with the outfit, the
helmet, the box, I looked legit. And it would have been impolite to not even
hold the door, to leave me standing outside in the cold with that heavy,
awkward parcel. I knew that somewhere, deep in his instincts, he was wondering
why the bike messenger didn’t just buzz the apartment of whoever the big box
was for. But because more than anything else he wanted to end this transaction
quickly, to get inside and be on his way with the least fuss possible, he
would tell himself that surely I would have, could have, buzzed the apartment,
but just happened to see him there, opening the door, and hoped he would be
kind enough to help me….

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“Sure,” he said, stepping to the right and holding the door as I passed him.
“Appreciate it,” I said, looking ahead over the box. A straight,
plaster-walled corridor, empty. The only danger of interruption, someone
coming down the elevator or in from the street. But at a little before noon,
the middle of the workday, and with only thirty units in the building, the
risk was small, and in any event unavoidable.
I set the box down next to the wall on my left with a grunt, leaving only a
narrow space for Accinelli to get by me on the other side. I stood there as
though catching my breath, ready for him to squeeze past.
Sudden, sickening doubt hammered me in the gut. A series of thoughts shot
through my mind in preconscious shorthand, laser sharp and klaxon loud, the
entire message delivered and received in a millisecond:
The whole thing’s a setup. There’s no mistress. Accinelli’s on the payroll.
They staged it so you would follow him here, where he could take you out.
I spun counterclockwise to face him, my hands up, so sure I would be facing a
gun or knife that as I came about and saw something in his fist, I didn’t
stop, I just slapped it aside with my left hand. At the instant I made contact
and the object broke loose to my left, I saw what it had been: his keys, and
no more than that. Oh, shit.
The keys flew through the air. Accinelli’s head tracked them as they bounced
off the corridor wall and hit the floor, his mouth wide open in surprise.
Oh, shit, I thought again. My paranoia had finally taken me over the edge. The
setup had been so perfect—he’d been a half-second away from stepping past me,
unconcernedly giving me his back. Now his expression was hardening, his arms
coming up, his body blading to the left, the old soldier’s instincts kicking
in, readying him to fight.
I wasn’t worried about whether I could handle him; I knew I could. But if I’d
lost the element of surprise, if he fought me, there was no way it was going
to look natural.
Decades of experience and underlying instinct took over. I stepped back and in
a high voice said, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought…I thought you had a
knife. Oh, my God, another flashback, I can’t believe this. I was mugged once,
and…I’m so sorry.”
He looked at me, confused and incredulous. No doubt part of his mind was still
screaming that I was a threat, but if I were, why had I stepped back instead
of pressing the attack? And my manner now was passive, even submissive in the
abjectness of my tone and my apologies. Before he had a chance to put it all
together, I said, “Here, let me just pick those up for you. I’m so sorry.”
“No!” he said, his hands still up, palms forward. “No, it’s fine. I’ll get
them myself.” He turned and took a step toward where the keys had landed.
“No, really,” I said, moving with him, the words tumbling out in urgent
cadences. “I feel so bad. I can’t believe this happened to me again. It’s so
embarrassing. The hospital told me with the medications it wouldn’t, and it’s
been three months since the last one so why would I expect a problem? But I
guess I should have…”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he said, now thoroughly convinced I was insane, and no
doubt wanting more than ever just to be away from me.
I didn’t stop my agitated rant for a second. It’s difficult to talk and attack
at the same time. The average person needs to get his mind right, focus,
concentrate first, even if only for a moment. Accinelli would recognize this,
on some level, and would therefore find my mad logorrhea comforting by
comparison with what he’d feared a moment before.
He picked up his keys and shouldered past me. He kept his head turned toward
me for an extra-long beat as he moved by, but I showed him my hands, palms
forward, my arms held back, to demonstrate my harmlessness, and kept up my
blathering.
Finally, his head turned. At the instant I was in his blind side, I shot in
and looped my right arm around his neck, yanking him toward me, getting him
back on his heels, off his base. The inside of my elbow centered on his
windpipe, just hard enough for positioning, not hard enough to crush anything.

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I caught my left biceps in my right palm, brought my left hand around to the
back of his head, and squeezed. I had learned the technique at the Kodokan as
hadaka jime, naked choke, better known in the West as a sleeper hold.
Accinelli grunted and backed into me, trying to get his weight under him, to
find his balance. His left hand scratched at my right forearm but found only
the slippery neoprene gauntlet of the bicycle glove. He dropped his keys and
reached back with his right, by instinct or long-ago training going for my
eyes, but I buried my face in his shoulder and his scrabbling fingers were
stymied by the bicycle helmet.
It was over in less than five seconds. Some people last a bit longer, some a
bit shorter, but no one can go very long once the carotids have been closed
off and oxygen is no longer reaching the brain. His groping hands abruptly
fell away and he slumped in my arms. I leaned back against the wall,
supporting some of his weight with my body, and held him there.
I was very conscious of how much pressure I was using. In the heat of the
moment, it would be easy to apply too much, which at a minimum would cause
bruises. The purpose of the choke was just to deny his brain oxygen. Anything
more than that was unnecessary and would leave signs. I had a lot of
experience with hadaka jime from my judo days, and always had a knack for it.
I could feel just how firmly to squeeze.
I remained like that, controlling my breathing, counting off the seconds.
Someone might have come down the elevator or in through the door, but the
possibility didn’t trouble me. If it happened, I would just drop Accinelli,
walk away, and deal with Hilger and everything else afterward. In any event,
there was nothing I could do to influence, let alone control, the eventuality.
I knew how I would react if it happened and that was enough.
I imagined what would come next: his mistress tries him on his cell phone,
then checks downstairs when there’s no answer. Or some other resident finds
him here. No sign of foul play—no gunshot, stab wounds, or blunt trauma—and
therefore no justification to expend resources on an autopsy. There would be
questions, of course, but he was a prominent man, and his family would be only
too eager to close the matter quickly and obscure the details of where he died
and what he might have been doing there. The cause would remain unknown, and
would probably be treated as an embolism or some other such story that doctors
proffer to families to help them find closure when death can’t otherwise be
explained.
After four minutes, I knew he was past any attempt at resuscitation. I eased
him down on the floor and looked outside. Two women in wool coats and fur
earmuffs walked by, laughing about something, maybe on their way to an early
lunch. I watched them pass. No one else was coming. Okay.
I picked up the box and stepped outside. I left the keys where they had
fallen. Logical enough that Accinelli had been holding them when he was struck
down by his mysterious embolic event, and that they would wind up on the floor
beside him.
I headed down the stairs, glancing south on Mott as I moved. All clear. I
glanced north. Then, only by virtue of years of experience, I turned my head
away and continued down the stairs as though I had noticed nothing of any
relevance.
What I had noticed, in fact, was the blond guy from Saigon. Hilger’s backup.
And he was walking straight toward me.
24
DOX WAS STANDING next to his cot, doing isometric exercises against his
chains. He knew from the sounds on the boat that they were in a port
somewhere; that, unusually, three of them were off the boat; that the one
who’d stayed behind was Uncle Fester. Despite knowing it was a victory for the
psycho, he couldn’t help feeling dread. Fester was going to give him the
“surprise” now, he could feel it. That, or something worse.
Things were quiet for a while, and then he heard Fester’s footsteps, coming
down the stairs, heading his way. He sat up on the cot and pulled futilely
against the chains, not for the first time. Goddamnit, if there had been just

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a little more slack. He’d thought a hundred times about improvising a weapon,
something sharp, but there wasn’t a single thing in the cabin, not a doorstop
or a window crank, the workings in the toilet tank, nothing. With a weapon, he
might, just might, have had a chance. But as it was, he couldn’t stand
straight, he could barely fucking move, he couldn’t even defend himself
against Fester’s knees and elbows when the psycho paid him a visit, how the
hell was he going to take the man out like he needed to?
Fester looked in through the window, then opened the door. He was carrying a
large canvas bag and smiling, and Dox thought, Nothing good can come of this.
“I was just thinking about you, Uncle Fester,” Dox said.
Fester smiled. “Yeah? I’m glad I didn’t find you touching yourself, then. It
would have been embarrassing.”
“Well, funny you should say that, ’cause that’s exactly the thing I was
thinking about. I was wondering if you’d ever had any kind of psychosexual
workup. I think you might be intrigued by the insights. Did you know that
eighty-five percent of people with an inclination to torture were bed wetters
and fire setters?”
Fester’s eyes narrowed and his ears flattened against his scalp, and Dox was
pleasantly surprised. He was making this shit up as he went along, but who
could say what kind of fucked-up childhood might produce an adult specimen
like Uncle Fester? Anyway, it seemed like he’d just hit a nerve.
“No,” Fester said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s all in the New England Journal of Medicine and the Harvard
Psychiatric Review. You ought to read the articles, you could learn something
about your nature.”
“Yeah, cabrón? I wonder why you enjoy reading those articles.”
“Oh, psychos like you are a hobby of mine. For example, did you know that
almost eighty percent of soldiers who volunteered for work as interrogators in
World War Two were denied the necessary security clearances because the tests
proved they were latent homosexuals? Not that there’s anything wrong with
that, of course. Gay será, será.”
Fester smiled and one of his eyes twitched. “Remember how we talked about
these?” he said, reaching into the bag and taking out a car battery and
alligator clips. “When we waterboarded you and you screamed like a girl. It
made me think…why not?”
“Oh, Fester, you shouldn’t have. Sharing your toys with me like this, it’s
touching.”
“Keep talking, motherfucker. It’s a nice warm-up for screaming.”
Dox smiled, continuing to play the game, but inside he felt a rush of
adrenaline at the possibility that had just suggested itself. So this was the
“surprise.” Fester wasn’t going to settle for a few well-balanced pops today.
He wanted to use electricity, instead, which would involve getting close and
staying close while he fucked around with a bunch of wires.
No one else was on the boat. There was never going to be a better chance.
“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” Dox said. “Don’t you ever wonder why you
enjoy this shit so much? Or were you afraid if people found out about it back
in old Mexico they’d have turned you out good and made you somebody’s bitch?
And the worst part is—admit now, it’s just the two of us—you secretly wish
somebody would.”
Fester smiled his psychopath smile again. “Turn around, cabrón.”
“Sorry, amigo, but giving my back to someone with your documented proclivities
would likely spoil my whole weekend.”
“Turn around, cabrón. Or I’ll turn you around.”
Dox felt a dip in the boat that told him someone had just stepped onto it.
Then footsteps on the stairs. Shit. He’d been so close to provoking Fester
into a heedless charge. Well, maybe he could cause a little more animosity,
enough to guarantee another encounter like this one.
“Come on, Fester, tell me the truth. You like those photos, don’t you? Where
the men are wearing black leather masks and holding cat-o’-nine tails? Maybe
some Nazi SS uniforms, you know what I’m talking about, the good stuff. I’ll

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bet you’ve got yourself a collection, I’ll bet you know all the best Internet
sites.”
Fester’s face went white and Dox thought, Damn, I’ve nailed you dead to
rights, you damn pervert.
The door opened and the young-looking guy walked in. He looked at Fester, then
at the battery he was holding. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Fester said. “Why are you back so soon?”
“What’s with the battery?” the young guy asked, his expression indicating he
had a good idea of the answer and didn’t like it at all.
“Uncle Fester finds gratification in getting in some extra licks when he
thinks no one’s looking,” Dox said. “This is just the first time he’s been
caught in the act. You are all aware he’s homosexual, right? Ask him about his
photo collection.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Fester snarled, and took a step toward Dox.
The young guy had a gun in his hands, and was pointing it at Fester, so fast
it seemed like a magic trick. Dox blinked, wondering for a second whether he
was seeing this right.
“I can’t allow that,” the young guy said, his voice perfectly calm.
“Mind your own fucking business,” Fester said, and the look in his eyes was so
hate-filled and dangerous that Dox decided the young guy had shown first-rate
judgment in not waiting to draw his weapon.
“I am,” the young guy said, still in the same no-nonsense tone. “And you’ll
thank me for it later, when you’ve had a chance to cool off. For now, I want
you to back up and go through that door. If you do anything other than comply
with my clear instructions, I will shoot you dead.”
For one second, the room was perfectly silent. Then Dox said, “This is a
difficult way to come out of the closet, Fester, but there are organizations
that can help you with the transition. Hotlines, things like that. You just
have to…”
The young guy took a step back. Keeping the gun on Fester, he turned his head
to Dox. “You, shut the fuck up,” he said, and something in his tone made Dox
decide he ought to comply.
Fester backed out as directed, and the young guy followed a moment later. Dox
heard the door lock, then their footsteps going up the stairs.
He sat there for a long time after, thinking. He wasn’t sure whether he’d just
created an opportunity for himself, or a death sentence. The one thing he did
know was the next time Fester managed to be alone on the boat with him, he was
going to find out.
25
A BEGINNER WOULD HAVE looked more closely, checking his perceptions, telling
himself until it was too late it couldn’t be so. Someone with a bit more
seasoning would have glanced away, but only after a startled reaction, and
some visible effort, which would have warned the enemy he’d been spotted. A
real survivor understands the essentials instantly. And what couldn’t be
understood now, I would consider later.
I took the steps to the sidewalk and set down the box so I was standing
between it and the bike. I put my back to Mr. Blond and started “unlocking”
the bike chain, watching him in the side-view mirror attached to my shades. He
was twenty yards away, not hurrying, but not taking his time, either. He was
wearing a black wool hat, not so much against the cold, I was sure, as to make
him harder to describe if there were witnesses. It might have been enough to
throw me off, too, but his gait had that same liquid ease I remembered from
Saigon, and that was all I’d needed to make him here.
How he’d found me didn’t matter for the moment. What he was here for, I could
assume. My main advantage was clear: not only had I given no sign I spotted
him, he didn’t even realize I knew who he was.
Now that my back was to him and he didn’t know I was watching, I looked more
closely in the side-view mirror attached to the helmet. He had on a black,
waist-length leather coat and, I now noted, gloves. It was how I would have
done it. The hat to obscure features; the gloves to prevent prints; the coat

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as light armor in case something goes awry and the target rallies with a
weapon. He was wearing shoes with thick soles, almost certainly rubber, and
his footfalls were noiseless.
However he planned to do it, it would be close. If it were a gun, it would be
small caliber for reduced noise profile, and he’d want the muzzle right
against my head. Even if it were a suppressed larger caliber, he’d want to be
as close as possible to be sure of the shot. A knife, of course, would be
quietest of all. Regardless, by giving him my back, I would increase his
confidence, change the implicit risk/reward calculus I knew was running
through his mind, reduce the apparent dangers of proximity and thereby
encourage him to enter the range I wanted.
I watched in the side-view. Ten yards now. A fresh dump of adrenaline surged
through my gut and my limbs.
Eight yards. I unwound the bike chain from the frame. It was over three feet
long and close to ten pounds, and attached at both ends by a heavy steel lock.
I took hold of the end opposite the lock, pretending to wrap the chain around
the stalk under the seat, letting him see my hands at work, keeping his
confidence high.
Five yards. His right hand dipped into his coat pocket and eased out, his arm
staying close to his body, his hand just in front of his thigh. His thumb
flicked a lever and a blade appeared. A decent bet, I thought, that he’d
decided to exploit the apparent opportunity to take me from behind by cutting
my throat. The advantages would be certainty of lethality, and blood spurting
away from him rather than onto his clothes.
Three yards. My heart was thudding like a war drum in my chest. I fought the
screaming urge to turn and face him before he got any closer.
Two yards. He started to ease to the right to get around the box I’d set down.
Now.
I spun clockwise, the chain in my right hand, the lock on the end of it coming
around like the racket on the world’s nastiest tennis backhand. Mr. Blond’s
reaction was instantaneous and showed a lot of training: he brought his left
hand up to the right side of his face, turtled his shoulders, dropped through
his hips, and, most important, stepped forward, inside the arc of the chain,
where a blow would deliver less force. But I’d anticipated all of it, and
action beats reaction every time. Between the length of my arm, the length of
the chain, and the flex of my hips and legs, I had a lot of room to adjust. I
drew in by an equivalent distance, and the lock snaked around and blasted into
his upraised left hand and right temple like the end of a medieval flail.
His head snapped to the left and he staggered in the same direction. The chain
came about, and as it passed my centerline, I swiveled my hips and swung it in
again, forehand this time, coming in from my right. Mr. Blond’s weight was on
his left foot and he couldn’t move out of the way. But somehow, even with his
circuits scrambled as they must have been, he managed to drop his weight and
get his left hand up again, high this time, palm out, his forearm protecting
his face. The lock blasted his arm back into his head and rocked him to the
right. But with a wounded quickness that amazed me, he managed to snake his
arm around the chain and get a hold of it before it bounced past him.
I tried to yank the chain away. Mistake: he pulled in the other direction and
used the counterforce to find his balance. His left foot was forward now, a
few inches from my right, our bodies mirror images attached by the short
length of chain. He took a half-step in with his right foot, and a left
sidekick blurred into my ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of me and
plowed me backward into the bike. Only my grip on the chain kept me from going
over.
He still had the knife in his right hand, close to his body. I felt what he
was about to do: shuffle step in, engage me with his left hand, stab with his
right. And my side was wide open.
I reached back with my left hand. He shot forward off his left leg, the right
foot trailing, closing the distance, the knife coming into range. My groping
fingers closed around the bike frame. His weight was carrying him forward now,

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the momentum channeled through his legs and into his knife hand. Supercharged
with fear and adrenaline, I swung the bike around like a discus thrower,
getting it between us just as he closed and went for my guts with the knife.
His hand punched through the wheel spokes and I twisted away a half-inch from
the blade.
He froze there for a split second, his left hand still gripping the chain, his
right caught in the bike wheel, trying to process these novel circumstances. I
didn’t know what kind of training he had, but it was a safe bet getting a
bicycle wrapped around you wasn’t part of the curriculum. Plunge forward? Jerk
back? Let go of the chain? So many options, so few neurons…
I didn’t give him time to come up with something effective. I sacrificed my
hold on the chain and grabbed the bike wheel with both hands, twisting and
rotating it to my left. His elbow was pushed into his body, and his hand
cranked past his shoulder. He howled in pain, his fingers came open, and he
lost the knife. I twisted harder, and he bent sideways at the waist to keep
his elbow from being broken. His right knee was torqued at almost ninety and
twisted in, and he had too much weight on it to get it out of the way. I
rotated counterclockwise, raised my right foot, and stomped down through the
back of his knee, breaking it. He howled again and as he collapsed over his
ruined leg, I twisted the wheel harder, and his elbow snapped, too.
I let go of the wheel and he went down on his back, the bike on top of him. He
made a hell of an effort to scramble out from under it, but he was short two
functioning limbs and his progress was minimal. I stepped wide of him, my eyes
scanning the ground. There, the knife. I scooped it up, a distant part of my
brain registering from the distinctive logo on the blade that it was an
Emerson, the recurve edge making it the Commander model, one of Dox’s
favorites.
Mr. Blond managed to sit up. He took hold of the bike frame with his left hand
and jerked his ruined arm out of the spokes, screaming with the effort. He
stared at me, panting, his nostrils flaring with exertion, his face glistening
with sweat. He pushed the bike forward as though to shield himself, but he had
only one good arm and his mobility was destroyed.
“One chance,” I said. “Tell me where Dox is and I’ll let you live.”
“Jakarta,” he said, through clenched teeth.
No. They wouldn’t keep the boat in the same place after a call. He was lying.
Then again, so was I.
I feinted left and he overreacted, and I stepped easily behind him. He dropped
the bike and tried to spin, but I stepped in close and shoved a knee in his
back, rotating with him as he frantically continued to try to turn and face
me. I covered his eyes with my left hand and cut his throat with my right.
The cut was deep but fast, and I had my hand out of the way just ahead of the
geyser that followed. A horrible gurgling sound poured forth, an interrupted,
bubbling scream. He fell to his side and turtled his chin in and clasped his
neck with his good hand, blood pouring through his fingers. I stepped back,
but that hot, acrid smell filled the air and invaded my senses, enrapturing me
for an instant in the insane killing joy I had first felt in Vietnam, that
almost orgasmic rush that only comes from killing a man who has just been
trying his hardest to do the same to you.
I stood there for a moment, the iceman propitiated, exulting, watching as Mr.
Blond struggled to get up, his legs kicking, a pool of blood spreading on the
sidewalk all around him. Then the kicking slowed and his hands fell away. A
long, burbling sigh issued forth, his head dropped to the pavement, and the
tension drained out of his limbs. One foot continued to scrape slowly back and
forth, back and forth, whether reflex or the body’s last, futile efforts to
fight I couldn’t say and didn’t care.
I glanced around. A dozen bystanders stood rooted, mouths agape, shocked, not
comprehending, struggling to come to grips with the evidence of their own
senses. They were all twenty-and thirtysomethings with fashionable bags and
trimmed goatees who’d come here for an upscale lunch of Moroccan couscous or
to acquire a fabulous pair of Italian platform shoes. A safe bet none of them

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had ever even witnessed a dead body, let alone one newly created with a knife
before their very eyes. I saw no immediate problems, neither accomplices nor
anyone who looked the least bit likely to try to intervene. I would have
expected more than one, but…Dox had said four people on the boat. Maybe Hilger
couldn’t spare more than Mr. Blond.
I badly wanted to check for ID, but there were too many people, and not enough
time. Besides, it was almost certain he was traveling sterile. I closed the
knife and pocketed it, threw the chain over my head, and picked up the box. I
righted the bike and almost got on, but looked down at the front wheel in
time. It was too badly bent to rotate cleanly through the metal struts on
either side of it. Shit.
I laid the bike down flat and stomped on the wheel, truing it sufficiently to
turn. I could have just jettisoned it, and the box, too, but I preferred to
leave nothing behind. And besides, I could create more distance faster on the
bike.
In my peripheral vision, I saw people taking out cell phones now, snapping
pictures, shooting video, and I was glad for the balaclava, helmet, and
sunglasses. Keeping my head down, I got on the bike and pedaled away north on
Mott, against traffic so no one in a car could try to follow me. The front
wheel wobbled but it held.
I made a right on Houston, rode as fast as I could four blocks to Forsyth,
then made another right, again against traffic. There was a dumpster at the
northeast end of Sara D. Roosevelt Park and I stopped next to it. I used Mr.
Blond’s knife to open the box and upended it into the dumpster, spilling out
the styrofoam peanuts. Then I sliced open the box’s other end, folded it flat,
and threw it into the dumpster, too. Witnesses would describe the box the bike
messenger had been carrying, and doubtless it had been captured on some cell
phone cameras, too. It couldn’t be traced back to me, but there was no
advantage to making it easy to find, either. Layers of defense. Always layers.
I cut east on Stanton. Two blocks further on, I paused just long enough to
dump the knife and the bike chain in a sewer. I pedaled south on Allen until I
found another dumpster, this one for the bike helmet and side-view mirror.
When I reached Canal, I got off the bike and leaned it against a building,
confident someone would appropriate it inside fifteen minutes. Even if no one
did, and the police picked it up, it was sterile. The serial number was gone,
I’d paid cash when I bought it, and I’d wiped it down completely for prints
before setting off that morning. More layers.
On foot now, I headed west on Canal, then north on Eldridge, then west again
on Hester and into the park. As I walked, I pulled off the balaclava and the
shades and stripped off the peacoat. Underneath, I was wearing my new shirt,
sport jacket, and tie. Shorn of the bulky coat, my build now appeared
considerably slimmer. I carried myself differently, too, imagining myself as a
professional, a man who wore a tie and jacket every day and worked in an
office. Anyone looking for a bike messenger now would go right by me. I took
the gloves off last, and left everything on the ground near a trash can. There
were homeless men in the park, and I expected the remnants of my bike
messenger persona would disappear no less quickly than the bike itself.
I pulled out the second pair of sunglasses, the round ones, from inside the
jacket and slipped them on, then checked the iPhone to see where Accinelli had
parked. The Bowery lot, the same place I’d seen him the first time. A little
closer to Mott Street than I would have liked, but no one was going to make me
now. Regardless, I couldn’t leave the transmitter under his car. Probably no
one would find it, and even if someone did, no one could trace it back to me,
but…the way I saw it, there was still a slim chance Accinelli’s death could be
ruled accidental. Maybe a heart attack from the fright of witnessing a bloody
murder not ten steps from where he stood, something like that. Not likely,
but…things were happening too fast for me to consider it all right now. I
didn’t want to leave behind evidence suggesting Accinelli had been targeted.
I’d stick with the original plan and figure out the rest later.
I heard sirens from west on Prince Street, and glanced over as I came to the

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Bowery lot. There was a police barricade in place, a uniformed cop directing
traffic from in front of it. The lot attendant was standing outside his booth,
watching.
“Excuse me,” I said, walking over. “I think I dropped my MP3 player the last
time I parked here. Can I take a quick look?”
“Sure, man,” he said, barely glancing away from the spectacle west on Prince.
I thanked him and went to Accinelli’s car. I squatted down, quickly retrieved
and pocketed the equipment, and slipped away without another word.
I drove back to Great Neck. Once I was out of the city and the immediate
exigency had passed, I got the shakes—the usual aftereffect of an overdose of
adrenaline, this time compounded by my awareness of how close I had just come
to dying. I pulled over at a rest stop to wait for it to pass.
I sat in the car for almost an hour. When the shaking was no more than a
slight vibration in my fingertips, I started thinking. I needed to consider
three things: How Hilger had gotten to me. Why. And what it meant for Dox.
How was the easiest. He must have known about Accinelli’s mistress. If he knew
about her, he would be aware of the unfavorable home and work terrain, as
well. Not so difficult to anticipate that I’d learn of the mistress, too, and
that I’d make my move at her apartment. Mr. Blond had probably been setting up
there for days, maybe in a van a block or two north, watching the area in
front of her apartment through binoculars. When he saw me go in after
Accinelli, he knew what I was there for. At which point, he gets out of the
van to intercept me and take me out. It was a good plan. If I hadn’t seen him
in Saigon, and remembered that smooth gait, it might have been me right now,
lying on the cold sidewalk in a pool of my own blood.
Why was harder. By killing me in the immediate vicinity of Accinelli’s cooling
body, Hilger would have significantly reduced the chances that Accinelli’s
death would be viewed as natural causes. Two deaths so close together is a
hell of a coincidence. That meant that the naturalness of Accinelli’s demise
wasn’t a priority for Hilger. Which raised the question of why he wanted me
for the job in the first place.
There was another thing. The third job was bullshit. There was no third job:
it was just an illusion, a way to get me to drop my guard.
Finally, Dox. I wanted to worry, knowing Hilger might already have killed him,
but the iceman wouldn’t permit it. Just work the problem, a voice in my mind
said. Be cool. Be analytical. The rest won’t help you, or Dox, either.
I put myself in Hilger’s shoes. He was smart. How would he plot this out?
There are only two targets. As soon as the second one is done, Mr. Blond takes
out Rain. Kill Dox first? Risky. What if Rain demands to talk to him again
before the Accinelli hit? And what if something goes wrong with the hit on
Rain? Without Dox, I’ll have lost all my leverage. Better to wait. When Mr.
Blond confirms Rain is done, I put Dox to sleep right after.
That felt right. It’s how I would have done it. Which meant Dox was still
okay.
Probably.
I rubbed my eyes. Now that the adrenaline surge was depleted, the inevitable
parasympathetic backlash was kicking in. My mind felt dull, and I badly wanted
to sleep.
How to handle this. That was the only other thing I needed to figure out now.
If I did things right, Dox still had a chance. If I fucked it up, he was done.
One way or the other, I needed to contact Hilger. I had to keep him moving,
keep trying to generate new datapoints until there were enough for a
breakthrough.
How. How.
I could pretend everything went fine. Accinelli is dead, apparently of an
embolism. Let me talk to Dox. Give me the particulars on the third target.
But no, that would unsettle him. He’d learn soon enough about Mr. Blond. He
might already suspect the worst, because his man sure as hell hadn’t reported
in since I’d last seen him. He’d know I was gaming him somehow if I didn’t
acknowledge what had happened.

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Play it straight, then. Accuse him, threaten him, fly off the handle. That’s
what he’d be expecting, what he’d be ready for. If I gave him the predictable
stimulus, he’d give me the predictable response.
Which would be…what? I wasn’t sure. Some form of denying everything, stalling
for time, finding a way to get at me again. He didn’t know I’d seen Mr. Blond
in Saigon—if he did, he would have sent someone else to ambush me in New
York—so he would probably believe he could bluff his way through.
I’d insist on talking to Dox again, of course. And if Hilger wouldn’t let me?
Well, that would mean only one thing. And I would spend the rest of my life
finding a way to make him pay for it.
I drove to the Great Neck Public Library and posted an update to Kanezaki.
Then I called him from a pay phone. It wasn’t yet five in the morning there.
Well, he was going to start his day early.
The phone rang only once, then I heard his voice: “Yeah.”
“What, do you sleep with that thing on your pillow?”
“Sometimes.”
“You need to check the bulletin board right away. All the particulars for the
second person on the list are there now. But he’s already been taken care of.
Things are moving fast.”
“Already been…you did it again. You waited to tell me.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you now. Remember the blond guy in the photos
I sent you?”
“Of course. I haven’t been able to find out anything.”
“You’ll be able to now. He had a bad accident in New York City not two hours
ago.”
“Oh, God.”
“Yeah, our friend sent him to anticipate me. I got lucky.”
“Our friend…that means…”
“Right. There’s no number three on the list. Or rather, I was number three.”
“What about…”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m hoping he’s still okay. He’s our friend’s leverage,
remember? I’m going to set up another call to find out. But we’ll get to that
in a minute. Are you up now? Are you listening?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding as though my question might have offended his
dignity.
“Good. The blond guy was probably traveling sterile. But I have a strong
feeling he was driving something, probably a van, that’s still parked on the
street. If the cops were to find it, they might be able to associate it with a
name. If we get a name, we can find out who applied for that visa to a certain
Asian country recently. You following me?”
“Of course,” he said again.
I realized I was being too didactic. He wasn’t green anymore, and he’d never
been stupid.
“You haven’t had time to think about this yet,” I said. “I have. That’s the
only reason I’m asking.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and I imagined a reluctant smile on the other
end of the phone.
“Anyway. If we have a name and visa application for Mr. Blond, we’ll be
awfully close to our friend.”
“Understood.”
I paused, thinking there were other things. Christ, I needed to sleep.
“What about those secondary effects we talked about?” I asked. “You know, the
family.”
“Almost done. I should have something later this morning.”
“All right, great. One other thing that occurs to me. I have a feeling our
friend knew the second guy on the list. They served in the same theater of
operations, you’ll see that. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but…my gut
tells me it’s significant. Part of the nexus we’re trying to establish.”
“All right, good. I’ll follow up on that. What’s next?”
“I’m going to send a message to our friend to set up another call. I’ll slow

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things down as best as I can, but if I don’t push to do the call quickly,
he’ll smell a setup. So my guess is, if you can come up with a breakthrough
about his location, we need it within forty-eight hours. No, less than that.
Because I’m going to have to travel to wherever he is.”
“Why don’t you leave now?”
“I don’t know where…”
“You don’t need to know, at least not exactly. We know he’s on a boat, still
probably within reasonable proximity to the last place he called from. Get
going now, you’ll be that much closer when we have his position. Wait in a hub
city, a place nearby with a lot of flight connections. It’ll save time.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m tired, I should have seen that.”
“Yeah, well, apparently nobody’s perfect.”
I laughed, glad to see he was counterpunching. “All right, I’ll set up that
call and then catch a plane. I’m going to need a few items from you, though.”
“Let me guess. Something from Santa.”
“Right. Same kind of toys he brought down the chimney last year, minus the
tranq gun. You remember, or do you want me to post it?”
The “toys” I was talking about included a suppressed pistol with infrared
laser and night sights, spare magazine, a hundred rounds of hollow point, a
tactical thigh rig for carry, and night-vision goggles. I might have some
refinements once I knew the terrain—assuming we learned the terrain in
advance—but it paid to get him moving on the fundamentals now.
“I remember,” he said.
“Smaller this time, too, more concealable. I’m probably going to be operating
in an urban environment. Body armor, too. And a medical kit. I don’t know what
kind of shape my buddy’s going to be in.”
“Got it.”
I thought for another moment, feeling I was missing something. Then I
realized.
“Papers,” I said. “I doubt my buddy’s been traveling with a passport, and
wherever he is, most likely he’s going to have to clear customs in a country
he hasn’t officially entered.”
“I can take care of that.”
“Good, good. All right, as soon as you have anything on those family members
or anything else, post it. And I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear from our
friend.”
“Okay. Good luck.”
I checked online. The only nonstop flight I could find from the East Coast to
Southeast Asia was on Singapore Air, Newark to Singapore Changi, leaving at
eleven o’clock that night, arriving in Singapore eighteen hours, forty minutes
later, at 6:40 A.M. local time. Long flight, but it would save time compared
to changing planes on the West Coast or in Tokyo or Hong Kong. Besides, the
way I felt just then, if I could snag a first-class seat, I could probably
sleep the entire way. And Singapore would put me within an hour flight, two at
most, of the likely radius of Hilger’s boat.
I called the airline on the way back to the hotel. I was in luck—first class
was available that evening. At over twelve grand for a round-trip ticket, I
was surprised they sold any at all. I didn’t know about their other customers,
but for me the extra comfort would be worth the expense. In my line of work,
the difference between arriving exhausted from a nineteen-hour flight and
arriving well rested could easily turn out to be a life-or-death thing.
I checked out of the hotel and found another Internet café, where I left
Hilger a message:
If you were hoping to hear from Mr. Blond, you might have to wait for a while.
He wasn’t doing well last time I saw him.
You have one chance to live through this. Let Dox go. Now.
I hoped it was the right message. I thought it would engage him the way I
wanted, but I couldn’t be sure. It was possible he’d double down: kill Dox,
come at me with everything he had, try to finish the game that way.
But I didn’t worry about it. Not really. I was too tired, for one thing. For

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another, I wasn’t in charge. The iceman was running this show now, and the
word worry had never been part of his lexicon. After all, to worry, at a
minimum you have to care.
26
HILGER SAT ON THE FLYBRIDGE, flanked by Pancho and Guthrie. They’d made port
in Singapore the day before and were docked now in a berth at the Republic of
Singapore Yacht Club. It was past one in the morning, though still hot and
humid, and the other seventy boats berthed around them were all silent, rising
and falling on the harbor swells as though breathing in their sleep.
Demeere had called fifteen minutes earlier, just before noon New York time.
He’d spotted Rain at the Mott Street apartment. No surprise there; they’d
known Rain was in New York from the bulletin board access, just as they’d
known he was in California before that and Paris originally. So far, so good.
Accinelli had shown up five minutes later. Demeere told them Rain had followed
Accinelli in, and they all knew that meant the man was as good as dead.
Demeere was setting out to intercept Rain, and would take him when he left the
apartment. He told them he would check in again right after, and then he
clicked off.
That had been fifteen minutes ago, a very long fifteen minutes. Hilger
imagined the sequence: Demeere had called just as Rain went in. Rain would be
inside for, at most, five minutes. Demeere wouldn’t fuck around when he came
out, he’d engage him immediately and be done with it. A one-minute walk back
to the van, drive off, call from a few blocks away. It was hard to imagine a
way for the whole thing to take more than ten minutes.
Another fifteen minutes went by. No one said a word. Hilger thought about
calling Demeere, but didn’t want to risk it. Demeere would have purged his
mobile phone before going out. If something had happened to him and Hilger
called him now, the call would remain in the log. Not likely anyone could do
anything with the number, but Hilger wasn’t going to take the risk. Besides,
if Demeere were able to call, he would have already.
Hilger turned to Pancho. “Can you access New York City police band through the
satellite?”
Pancho nodded. “It’ll take a little doing, but yeah.”
“All right. Let’s see if we can learn anything that way.”
Pancho disappeared. Guthrie and Hilger remained silent.
Ten minutes later, Pancho returned. From the set of his jaw, Hilger knew even
before he spoke.
“They’ve got a killing on Mott Street,” Pancho said. “No ID on the body,
they’re calling it a John Doe. But the victim is a Caucasian male. Blond
Caucasian, about thirty-five.”
Hilger nodded, betraying no emotion. “How?” he asked, and that would be his
only concession to a concern for something non-operational.
“Throat cut,” Pancho said.
Guthrie shook his head. “Goddamn,” he said. “Goddamn.”
Hilger sighed. He never got upset in these situations, never. He’d lost men
before, and knew by instinct and training not to indulge his grief until
later, when the immediate situation had been dealt with and new plans set in
motion. His men had always looked to him for leadership, and leadership meant
focusing on the problem, not on your own feelings.
“What do you think Rain’s going to do?” Pancho asked.
“Hard to say,” Hilger said. “But he’ll check in. We’ve still got his friend.”
“You think he did Accinelli before he got to Demeere?”
Hilger nodded. “I’d say so. Monitor the police band, and we’ll know soon
enough.”
“What kind of vulnerabilities does this create?” Guthrie asked. “I mean,
Demeere was operating sterile, right?”
“No doubt about that,” Hilger said. “And even if someone could attach a name
to him, it wouldn’t be a real one. And even if the false name could lead to
anything…Rain doesn’t have the kind of resources to do anything with it. And
if even if he did, we’re moving around too much for him to pinpoint us. We’ll

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only be in Singapore for another day, and then we’ll move on. Operationally,
we’re okay.”
“If Accinelli’s done,” Pancho said, “we don’t need Rain. If we don’t need
Rain, we don’t need Dox. Say the word, and I’ll take us out toward the Riau
Islands, weight him, and throw him over the side.”
Guthrie shot Pancho a look that Pancho ignored. Hilger had a reasonably good
idea of what the exchange meant.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. I want to hear what Rain has to say first.”
“Are you…are you going to call Demeere’s wife?” Guthrie asked.
Among the four of them, Demeere had been the only one who was married. An
American woman, JoAnne Kartchner, who lived with Demeere in Brussels. Hilger
had met her once. She had lively eyes and he could see the attraction between
her and her husband. Demeere’s work kept him away from home a lot, but Hilger
had never known him to be unfaithful.
He wouldn’t say anything now, but before Demeere left for New York, he had
given Hilger the number where he could reach JoAnne. “I’m not planning on
going anywhere,” he had said, with a small smile. “This is just in case.” Now
Hilger wondered whether the man had sensed something, some premonition.
He wondered for a moment whom he would want called on his own behalf, if the
worst should happen. Or whom he would want to call himself, if he knew his own
end was imminent. No doubt his sister, Susan. She was married and living in
New York, a third kid on the way. He visited her and her family every time he
was on the East Coast. After all, with their parents gone and no other
siblings, there wans’t much other family to stay in touch with, and her two
sons, Hilger’s wonderful nephews, were the whole future of the clan. Yeah. If
he knew it was all over, if he had time, it would be a comfort if Susan’s was
the last voice he heard.
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call his wife.”
Nobody moved. The night’s humidity had grown heavier, a pall of wet heat that
pressed down on them from above and all sides.
“Demeere was a good man,” Hilger said. “As good and reliable as any I’ve had
the privilege to work with. We’re going to miss him. And we’re going to honor
his memory by finishing what we started, and what he cared about enough to be
part of.”
Pancho and Guthrie nodded. Hilger looked at them, satisfied they were going to
be all right.
My God, but Rain was going to pay. And that fucking Dox, too. Between the two
of them, they’d cost Hilger dearly. He was so angry just now that he was
tempted to let Pancho do as he’d asked, take the boat out to deeper water and
dump Dox over to the sharks. He was angry enough to leave the two of them
alone for a while first, knowing how Pancho was likely to use the time.
But the operation had to come first, as always. Demeere had been the point man
in Amsterdam, and with him gone, someone else would have to go there for the
final steps. He didn’t like the idea of sending Pancho; the man was capable,
but his forte was muscle, and he lacked Demeere’s finesse. For one second,
Hilger wished he had sent Pancho to New York instead of Demeere. It was
Pancho’s aura of dangerousness that had persuaded him not to—Rain would have
made him too easily. Demeere, he had thought, would have a better chance at
surprise. Well, that hadn’t worked out, but there was nothing to be gained
from agonizing over it now.
And Guthrie…he was definitely good, definitely reliable. But Hilger hadn’t
known him as long as the others, and wasn’t sure he trusted him for something
as critical as Amsterdam.
In the end, he might have to go himself. Yeah, that would probably be the best
way. Despite everything, the operation was still on track. Best to see it
through personally.
For the moment, that meant holding on to Dox for a little while longer.
But only a little.
27
THE LONG FLIGHT TURNED out to be exactly what I needed. There was nothing I

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could do about anything until I was on the ground again, and knowing that, and
accepting it, enabled me to unwind for the first time since receiving Hilger’s
message in Paris. I fueled up on the first-class dinner, then slept like a
dead man for nearly twelve hours after. I woke up feeling reasonably fresh,
with less than five hours remaining to Singapore.
I thought about what I would do after landing. I’d stay in the terminal, at
least to begin with. If Kanezaki had gotten a fix on Hilger’s position, and
depending on when Hilger wanted to do the call, I might have to fly
immediately to Jakarta, or Kuala Lumpur, or wherever. I didn’t want to waste
time clearing customs twice, or be forced to explain such a rapid
back-and-forth to an immigration official, either.
Okay, find an Internet connection in the terminal after we land, access the
bulletin boards, see what Hilger…
My thoughts stopped there, snagged on a problem I hadn’t anticipated. If
Hilger had a way of knowing where I was accessing the board, and he saw the
access in Singapore, or anywhere else in Southeast Asia, he’d know I was
coming for him.
Shit. Stupid to have missed something so obvious. There had been a lot going
on, and I was tired, but still…
Delilah. I didn’t see an alternative. I could give her the URL, and she could
cut and paste Hilger’s message onto the bulletin board she used with me. Or
read it over the phone, either way. And then I could dictate the response to
her, and she could type it in. Hilger would think I’d gone back to Paris after
New York. There were actually some advantages this way. If he thought I was in
Paris, it would lull him, get him to lower his guard.
But what if she told her organization? Maybe she wouldn’t, but I couldn’t
count on her not to. On the other hand, if they wanted Hilger dead, as she had
told me, I supposed there was at least a decent chance they’d stay out of my
way. And if they interfered…well, I’d just have to take the risk. I might have
turned to Kanezaki, but I didn’t trust him enough to have him filtering my
messages from Hilger, not on this. He had an agenda, and saving Dox was only
tangentially a part of it. For a dozen reasons, personal as well as
professional, I didn’t want to go to her. But there was no one else but
Delilah.
As soon as we landed and I was off the plane, I headed to a pay phone in the
terminal to call her. It was midnight in Paris, but she was a night owl, and I
knew she’d be awake. The only question was whether she was alone. If she was
operational, she wasn’t going to answer the phone.
But luck was with me. She picked up right away with a throaty “Allo.”
“Allo,” I said. “C’est moi.”
There was a pause. She said, “Is everything okay?”
“No breakthroughs, but some movement. I…need your help with something. Is that
okay?”
“You know it is.”
“All right. Our friend uses a bulletin board to contact me. But he may have a
way to check the location from which I’m accessing it. I don’t want him to
know where I am now. So I need you to access it for me.”
“That’s nothing. I thought you were going to ask for more.”
“I might. But this is all I need for now. Just for you to access it, cut and
paste the message into the bulletin board you and I use, and then cut and
paste my response back into the bulletin board I use with him. If we do it
this way and he checks as I expect, he’ll think I’m in Paris. That’ll give me
an advantage.”
“I understand.”
“You have to go someplace sterile. You don’t want him to be able to trace…”
“Yes, I know that.”
I thought of Kanezaki’s peeved “of course” responses for a second, and some of
the comments I’d received from Dox over the years, too.
“Do I…micromanage?” I asked.
“Yes.”

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I cleared my throat. “Listen, don’t sugarcoat it. I can handle it straight.”
She laughed. “I’ll leave right now. Give me a half-hour.”
I went to an Internet terminal. After the usual check for spyware, I uploaded
the Hilger URL to Delilah. Then I checked the Kanezaki bulletin board. I’d
found nothing on it so many times in the last week that I was expecting
nothing now.
I was wrong. Kanezaki had hit the jackpot.
The dead man in NYC was named Wim Demeere. He applied for a Vietnamese visa
under the name William Detts and traveled to Saigon at the same time as you.
Here’s the photo from the visa application.
There was a postage stamp–size photo attached. It was him: the blond man I’d
seen in Saigon, then killed in New York.
A James Hillman applied and traveled at the same time. Here’s his photo. Look
familiar?
There was a second photo. I recognized it instantly. Hilger.
Here’s the best part. You were right, Dox was trying to tell you about a
Marine. The guy’s name is Frank “Pancho” Garza, and Hilger knows him from
Iraq. There’s a thirty-foot fishing boat, Ocean Emerald, registered to Garza
in Shanghai, berthing privileges at the Shanghai Boat and Yacht Club. Ocean
Emerald docked in Jakarta last week, and two days ago made a port call at the
Republic of Singapore Yacht Club. As far as I know, it hasn’t left Singapore.
I realized I was gripping the mouse hard and made myself stop. Singapore…damn,
they were right here. I didn’t even have to make the short hop to Jakarta,
Kuala Lumpur, wherever. It was the best omen I’d felt since this whole thing
started.
Now, secondary effects: Jannick had a brother, Henk Jannick, who cleared
customs in San Francisco last week, apparently to take care of his brother’s
family and help with burial and estate matters. Henk is the head of security
at the port at Rotterdam. Henk’s number two is another Dutch national, Joop
Boezeman.
Two things about Boezeman. First, presumably he’s in charge of security while
Henk Jannick is away. Second, he attended a conference in New York City in
September last year: the U.S. Maritime Security Expo. Accinelli was one of the
speakers. Demeere was another attendee.
Here’s my take: Boezeman works for Hilger. Whatever Hilger is up to, it
involves something in Rotterdam, something that the head of port security
there could prevent. But a hit on the security head himself is too difficult,
or too high profile, or both. So Hilger kills Henk’s brother in California,
forcing Henk to take leave, and in Henk’s absence, the #2 guy, Boezeman, is in
charge. Boezeman in charge creates an opening for Hilger to do something. The
question is what.
Other questions: Why did Hilger have Accinelli killed? Why were Demeere,
Accinelli, and Boezeman at the Maritime Security Expo in New York at the same
time?
I know you’re in the air. Call me as soon as you get this. This thing is
bigger than just Hilger, I can feel it.
It was what I’d been hoping for. A bunch of disconnected pieces that, with
just one additional datapoint, or one fresh perspective, suddenly cohere into
meaningful intelligence. But Accinelli, and now Boezeman and the rest…I didn’t
care about any of it. Hilger had Dox right here in Singapore. That was all
that mattered.
I gave Delilah the half-hour she’d asked for, then accessed our bulletin
board. She had pasted in Hilger’s message:
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Good work on Accinelli, but you still
have one more to do before Dox walks. I know you’ll want to talk to him. Call
me like last time at 08:00 GMT. That’s 24 hours from the time I’m leaving this
message.
I smiled. Stimulus, response. By leading with threats and accusations, I’d
created an opening for him to deny everything and try to dissuade me. And
maybe I’d bought Dox a little time in the process.

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I checked the time/date stamp. He’d left the message at 08:00 GMT the previous
day. That was four in the afternoon in Singapore, while I’d been in the air.
So I had—I looked at my watch—a little over eight hours before the call.
I purged the browser, went to another pay phone, and called Kanezaki.
He picked up right away. “Where are you?”
“Not over the…”
“I’m using a scrambler, it’s okay. Where are you?”
“Singapore.”
“Perfect, perfect. I was hoping you’d catch the nonstop from Newark. I’m here,
too.”
“What are you…”
“You saw the bulletin board, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You were already in the air when I got the information. I had to leave right
away—assemble the gear you need, charter a plane…there wasn’t much time.”
“Where are you?”
“Grand Hyatt, Scotts Road and Orchard. Can you meet me here?”
Ordinarily, I would have declined. It’s inherently uncomfortable for me to
allow someone else to choose a meeting place. But it made no sense for
Kanezaki to try to set me up now. Maybe another time, but not now. I
suppressed my paranoia and said, “Yeah. Give me two hours.”
“Room seven-oh-four. I’ll be here.”
I hung up and called Delilah from another phone.
“You get it?” she asked.
“I got it. Thank you.”
“Let me give you another number, a sterile line, scrambled. I need to talk to
you, it’s important.”
“You can just put it on the…”
“I’ll put the number on the bulletin board. But I need to talk to you.”
I hung up, checked the bulletin board, and called her back on the sterile
line.
“What is it?” I said.
“Do you know where Dox is?”
“I…have a good idea.”
“You said he’s on a boat. How are you going to get him off?”
Why was she asking me this? “How do you think?” I said.
“I think you’re so angry and afraid that you’re planning on going in with both
guns blazing.”
I frowned. “That’s not exactly the way I’d put it.”
“Without solid intelligence about the layout, and the numbers and placement of
opposition on the boat, you might as well be wearing a blindfold. It’s
suicide, for you and Dox. You can’t do this alone.”
“Look, I appreciate the offer, but this is going down today. You’re too far
away.”
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Boaz.”
“What?”
“He’s in Jakarta now. And he has something you need.”
“What the hell is he doing in Jakarta?”
“You know what he’s doing there. Waiting for your call.”
I felt something go cold inside me. “You told him,” I said quietly. “About
Dox. About Hilger.”
“Yes, I told him. My people want Hilger dead. They’ll help you.”
“Hilger dead is secondary. All I’m trying to do for now is save Dox.”
“It amounts to the same thing. And if you get killed storming that boat, you
won’t save anyone.”
I didn’t respond. First Midori, I was thinking. Now you. I drop my guard a
little, and look what happens. Every damn time.
“Do you understand?” she said.
“I don’t need your help,” I said, barely managing to modulate my voice. “I
don’t need you second-guessing me and deciding what’s best behind my back.

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I’ve lived a long time, through shit you wouldn’t believe if I tried to tell
you, and I’ve managed it with my own instincts and my own judgment.”
“Good. Keep living that way. Don’t ever change your tactics. It’ll all work
just fine for you, right up until the day you die from it.”
Maybe it’s for the best, I thought. This is your way out, your reason. You
always knew you couldn’t trust her. Now she’s given you the proof. Just say
goodbye and you’re done.
“You had no right,” I said, getting ready.
“No, John, I do have the right. You see, I’m in love with you. And that means
I have the right, and the obligation, and yes, the fucking self-interest not
to let you do something stupid that gets you killed!”
“You…you’re…” I said, stupidly, my game plan suddenly shredded.
“I love you,” she said again.
There was a long pause.
“I don’t know what to say,” I managed to mumble.
“The traditional response is, ‘I love you, too.’ You can try that, if you
want.”
I swallowed. “Tell me about Boaz,” I said, hoping she would accept it as a
kind of answer.
“He has something that can get you onto the boat safely. And Dox off it. He’s
on a private plane. It’s fueled and ready to go, and he can meet you anywhere.
You just have to call him and tell him where.”
There was another long pause. I said, “Give me the number.”
She did. I jotted it down.
“I, uh, I’ll…” I said.
“Just help Dox. And protect yourself. We can talk about the rest later.”
“Wait,” I said. “I…”
But she had already clicked off.
I called the number. A voice I recognized said in gruffly accented English,
“Boaz here.”
“Hello, Boaz,” I said.
“Shalom, Rain-san,” he said, and I imagined his irrepressible smile. “I was
hoping you would call.”
“This line is secure?” I asked, hoping the answer was yes now that he had used
my name.
“Of course. Where are you?”
“That depends. What do you have for me?”
“Delilah didn’t tell you?”
“Not specifically.”
“Then I’ll just say this. It’s a hostage rescue technology developed by our
Sayeret Matkal commandos. Top secret. And just what you need.”
“What’s it going to cost me?”
“We want Hilger dead. He killed Gil in Hong Kong, as you know, and we’ve been
looking for him ever since. Delilah says you have actionable intelligence
pinpointing his location. If that’s true, the Sayaret technology is yours to
use. I can bring it to you.”
Actionable intelligence? I thought. Maybe now, but not when Delilah had
contacted Boaz. Well, she’d told him what she thought was necessary to get him
involved.
“You’re not worried about CIA retaliation?” I said, stalling for time so I
could think about whether to tell him where to find me.
“Hilger’s not CIA anymore, as you know. He’s a freelancer now. That makes him
vulnerable.”
Not exactly a comforting statement, from my perspective. Goddamnit, how was I
going to handle this….
“I’m in Singapore,” I said, feeling I was losing control of the situation.
First Kanezaki, then Delilah, now Boaz…Christ, why not just throw a party?
“I’ll be there in three hours. Tell me where.”
“Can I reach you on this number?” I asked.
“Of course, it’s a mobile, GSM.”

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“I’ll call you. Be somewhere in the Orchard Road shopping center.”
After the usual assuming-the-worst precautions at and en route from the
airport, adjusted to account for the extensive public camera coverage courtesy
of the Singapore government, I made my way to the Grand Hyatt near Orchard
Road, Singapore’s upscale shopping district. It was about eighty degrees and
humid, and I relished the tropical heat after the arctic conditions in New
York. The area in front of the Towers was bustling with well-dressed Chinese,
Malays, Indians, and foreigners, and I caught snatches of conversation in a
half-dozen tongues. Cars and taxis were lined up patiently at traffic lights
in the rush-hour congestion, and I almost smiled at the distinct absence of
honking horns. It seemed these people had found a way to get along.
I took the elevator to the tenth floor, then the stairs down to seven. I moved
along the empty hallway watchfully until I came to Kanezaki’s door. I knocked,
then took several steps back. Despite what my rational mind was telling me, I
hated showing up where I was expected. Especially after what had happened
outside Accinelli’s apartment.
Kanezaki opened the door and looked out at me, a slightly quizzical expression
on his face. “You going to come in?” he said.
I nodded and made my way into the room. The shades were down, and I noticed
immediately the sliding doors to the bathroom were open. Likewise the closet.
He was being courteous, as well as sensible. When you’re dealing with someone
looking for a threat, you’re asking for trouble if you don’t let him see your
hands.
Kanezaki locked the door and turned on the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Then he put a
nylon duffel bag on one of the twin beds and gestured for me to help myself.
Inviting me to reach into the bag, instead of doing it himself, again showed
experience and good sense.
I dropped my carry-on and took a look. Inside was a 45 SOCOM HK Mark 23 with
Trijicon night sights, a laser aiming module, Knight’s Armament suppressor,
two spare mags, one hundred rounds of Federal Hydra-Shok, and a Wilcox
tactical thigh holster. Also night-vision equipment. Same gear he’d gotten Dox
and me for our raid at Wajima a year earlier.
“I told you, something concealable,” I said, hefting the HK, racking the slide
to check that the chamber was empty. With the attached suppressor, the damned
thing would be a foot and a half long.
“I do the best I can,” he said. “I thought you liked the SOCOM.”
“I like it fine. I just don’t want to walk down the street with it in broad
daylight.”
“This is going to go down during the day? We don’t need the night-vision
equipment, then.”
“No. Although better to have it and not need it.”
“Well, the SOCOM is what I can borrow from the armory without anyone asking
questions. Look, there’s a pair of fishing coveralls, too. The thigh rig will
fit inside with room to spare. Slice a hole at the hip and you’ll have easy
access.”
I pulled out the coveralls he was talking about and draped them open. Yeah, I
supposed they would serve. He even had disassembled rods and a tackle box
inside, obviously for cover at the yacht club. I saw a baseball cap and
shades, too, along with gloves, binoculars, and the requested medical kit.
“You’ve thought of everything,” I said, not displeased.
He shrugged. “Two heads are better than one. Look in the tackle box.”
I did. In addition to a full complement of fishing gear, there was a Benchmade
Mini-Reflex with a three-inch blade. I pressed the catch and the blade sprung
into place.
“Nice,” I said.
“Don’t get caught with it. It’s illegal except for active duty military and
law enforcement. You could get in trouble.”
I laughed and pocketed the knife. “What about the body armor?”
“In the closet.”
I glanced over. Two blue vests hung from a pair of hangers. I walked over and

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hefted one. “Christ, it’s light,” I said. “You sure this is any good?”
“Dragon Skin. It’ll stop a 7.62 round at twenty-four hundred feet per second.”
I nodded, liking the sound of that. “You’ve got two in here,” I said.
“I’m going with you.”
I looked at him, and saw he was serious.
“No,” I said. “It’s not necessary. It’s not even a good idea.”
“I’ve thought it through. I don’t see how you can do it alone. Figure at least
two fixed defenders, maybe more, and…”
“Do I seem to be getting old?” I asked.
“What? No. I mean, the same as usual.”
“At the rate I’m going, I half expect someone to try to take my arm when I go
to cross the street.”
“Why, who else is trying to help you?”
“Never mind.”
“Anyway, it wouldn’t matter if you were twenty. That’s not the point.”
I thought of Boaz. “I’ve got something that’ll change the odds.”
“What?”
“Let’s just say you’re not my only low friend in high places.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Look,” I said, “it’s not that I’m not grateful. But you and I have never
operated together before, not when it comes to kicking down doors, anyway.
We’re as likely to get in each other’s way as we are to do each other any
good. Trust me on this, okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re an ops guy, Tom, and you’ve turned into a damned good one. But you’re
not a shooter. Play to your strengths. You’ll live longer.”
We were quiet for a moment. He said, “You’re still going to need someone to
drive. I’ve got a van.”
I thought for a minute. I had been planning to rent a car myself. If I managed
to drop everyone cleanly inside the boat and Dox was in good shape, we could
walk leisurely out to the parking lot when it was done. If he wasn’t in good
shape, or if there was pursuit, having a car waiting with the engine running
could make all the difference.
“All right,” I said. “You drive, and I go in.”
“Deal. How about the rest?”
“Hilger wants to do the call at sixteen hundred local time. That gives me the
rest of the morning and early afternoon to pick up the other equipment I need,
get a feel for the layout of the yacht club with Google Earth, reconnoiter the
perimeter, and go in.”
“You sure he’ll make the call from the boat?”
I paused, seeing a disconnect between us that I’d missed until just now.
“Yeah, I’m sure. The purpose of the call is proof of life. He’s got to be able
to put Dox on, assuming Dox is even still alive, and there’s no way they’re
going to move Dox off the boat. So the boat is where the call happens. But the
call isn’t when I want to go in. I want Hilger off the boat, not on it.”
“I don’t get it. How…”
“Hilger is secondary. If I hit the boat early, maybe he won’t be there. It’s
one less person shooting back at me, and Hilger is a damn good shot. If I wait
until the call, their numbers likely go up, and my odds of getting Dox out go
down.”
Not that I hadn’t been tempted to go for the “two birds with one stone”
scenario. Certainly, the iceman wanted to do Hilger badly enough to wait until
he was sure to be on the boat. But if Dox got killed because of my lust to
kill Hilger, I wouldn’t be able to live with it. We could always pick him up
later. One thing at a time.
Kanezaki almost said something, didn’t, then almost said it again.
“What?” I said.
“If you’re not going to do Hilger, help me with something else.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you in the bulletin board message, this is bigger than just Hilger.

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The kind of thing I was hoping to prevent by taking him out, I think it’s
already under way.”
I said nothing, and he went on. “Hilger used to be military, and after that,
the Agency. You know what the difference is now?”
I shook my head.
“There’s no oversight now, and he’s running a for-profit outfit. Translation:
He can do anything, for anybody. Look what he was mixed up with in
Macau—radiological-tipped missiles with that arms merchant, Belghazi. Then in
Hong Kong, nuclear matériel to the terrorist, Al-Jib. Do you see a pattern
here?”
“I suppose so, but…”
“So what do you think it means that he’s found a way to put his own agent
temporarily in charge of Rotterdam port security?”
“I don’t know.” I might have added that I didn’t care, but there was no
advantage in provoking him.
“It means he can bring anything he wants into the port.”
“So…”
“Rotterdam is the largest container port in Europe, and every one of the
world’s leading oil and chemical companies is active there. You’ve got four
world-class oil refineries and more than forty chemical and petrochemical
companies. We’re talking jet fuel, gasoline, everything. It’s a major
terrorist target.”
“Because…”
“Because if something shuts down the refineries, the price of refined
petrochemical products skyrockets. Driving, flying, heating oil, you name it.
Shortages of everything, and the world economy drops to its knees.”
“You think that’s what Hilger’s up to?”
“I think that’s what he’s being paid to do, although I don’t know by whom. But
here’s the way I see it. Accinelli’s company sells chemicals, right?”
“I know.”
“Including radioactive materials like cesium 137, which is used in oil
drilling, atomic clocks, certain medical applications…and dirty bombs.”
I was quiet, waiting for him to go on.
“Hilger and Accinelli went way back, all the way to the first Gulf War. I
think they were friends, as you suggested. I think Accinelli introduced
Demeere and Boezeman at that security conference in New York, and I think
Accinelli procured cesium, or something like it, for Hilger, maybe under false
pretenses. I think the reason Hilger had Accinelli killed was because he knew
too much, he’d be able to connect Rotterdam to Hilger if something happened
there.”
“That’s a lot of speculation.”
“There’s more. Remember the British Petroleum Prudhoe Bay shutdown? Because
the pipes were rusty? That was Hilger.”
“Hilger put rust in the pipes?”
“There was no rust. Hilger has information on everyone, he blackmailed the
people who make those decisions at BP. All pipes have some rust, just not
enough to matter. But who could contradict the company? It was the perfect
excuse. I think Hilger wanted to see the global impact of an interruption. And
I think he found it unsatisfactory. He wants something bigger—not just a
pipeline, a whole refinery complex. Like the one at Rotterdam.”
I sighed. “Why can’t you deal with him through channels?”
He laughed. “I’ve got a friend in the Inspector General’s Office. I talked to
him about Hilger once. He told me the man is untouchable. No one even wants to
mention his name. The word is, he’s got leverage on a lot of people, and
powerful friends, too. No one’s willing to go after him at the top, and if you
try from down below you’ll run into obstructions, or worse. Do you get it now?
The system’s broken.”
We were quiet for a moment. I said, “What are you asking me?”
“Boezeman lives in Amsterdam. Go there. Brace him. Find out what Hilger’s been
up to and help me stop it.”

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“Don’t you have real secret agents who are paid to do this kind of thing?”
“Yeah, we have lots of them. All I have to do is fill out the necessary
paperwork explaining where my intel comes from—that means you, by the way.
Except…oh, shit…no one knows about you. Since the first time you helped me
with my treasonous boss in Tokyo, I haven’t reported our contacts, which is a
felony, by the way. I’ve shredded files on you—oops, another felony. But I’m
sure the bureaucrats who run the CIA and are beholden to Hilger will be happy
to overlook all that and do whatever I ask of them in Amsterdam or anywhere
else as long as I say please.”
He was quiet for a moment, breathing hard.
“Look,” I said. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. But we had a deal. You
help me with Dox, I take out Hilger.”
“You’re breaking the deal. You’re letting Hilger walk away. I’m saying okay,
just help me in Amsterdam, instead.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“You killed two people. Both with families. Don’t you even want to try to
prevent whatever all that was intended to foster?”
I wasn’t even aware of crossing the room. It was like I was gone for a second,
and when I came back, I had him against the wall, my hand gripping his shirt,
my forearm jammed against his throat.
“I did that for my friend,” I snarled. “Not to help Hilger, or anyone else.
For my friend. Because I didn’t have a choice.”
“Does that mean you don’t care?” he rasped, his mouth a grimace.
I held him there a second longer, then let him go. He coughed and massaged his
throat, but he didn’t take his accusing eyes off me.
“Tell me something,” I said. “The difference between you and Hilger.”
He cleared his throat and swallowed. “The ends, Rain. It’s all about the
ends.”
I looked at him. “I bet he’d say the same thing.”
“He’d be right.”
We stood there for a moment in silence. Finally, I said, “I’ll think about
it.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“You sound like Tatsu. And you’re manipulating me the way he did, too, you
bastard.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, he would have said that, too.”
I borrowed his shower, changed into fresh clothes, and got ready to head out.
“I’ve got some things to do,” I said. “I’ll leave my bag here, if that’s okay.
Why don’t you load the gear into your van and reconnoiter the yacht club.
Don’t get too close. You don’t need to know the interior layout. That’s my
job. You do need to know the streets, ingress, egress, everything.”
He started to say something, but I cut him off. “Sorry,” I said. “I know you
know that. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”
He smiled and held out his hand. I shook it. He started to say something
again, and again I cut him off.
“Don’t tell me to do the right thing,” I said. “I already told you I’d think
about it. Don’t sell past the close.”
He looked at me. “What, are you psychic now?”
I frowned. “What, then?”
“I was just going to say good luck. Is that okay?”
I told him it was. We were going to need it. And so was Dox.
28
I DID A ROUTE from the hotel to make sure I was still clean. Then I stopped at
Orchard Towers, a nondescript office complex in the city’s shopping district.
No one would know from the utter diurnal blandness of the place that every
night it was overrun by a raucous throng of calculating prostitutes and eager
johns. For now, the wall-to-wall bars in the basement and on the first two
floors were shuttered, and the atrium was quiet enough to be in a coma. I took
the escalator to an Internet shop I knew on the second floor.

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I used one of the terminals to check out the Republic of Singapore Yacht Club,
first through the club’s own website, then from the air with Google Earth.
Amazing, the information that’s publicly available these days. Not long ago,
you needed a top secret clearance to access Keyhole satellite photographs. Not
anymore.
The club had berths for about seventy boats of varying sizes. A long pier
extended out from the marina facilities, with five perpendicular quays leading
off it. Kanezaki had said Ocean Emerald was a thirty-footer. That meant the
boat could have been in any of the perpendicular berths. I would try to find a
way to narrow it down. Even if I couldn’t, five general possibilities wasn’t
insurmountable.
The club also had three restaurants and a bar; twenty-eight guestrooms; and
boat rentals. All of which meant that, however exclusive the place might
otherwise be, they welcomed, and were used to, visitors on the premises.
So far, so good. I called Boaz from a pay phone.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“A food court, in a shopping center at the corner of Orchard and Scotts.”
“You know where Orchard Towers is?”
“Orchard Road?”
“Yeah, a half-mile west of you, across the street from the Hilton. Meet me out
front in five minutes. You in a car or on foot?”
“On foot.”
“All right. See you in five.”
Five minutes didn’t give him a lot of time to scramble an ambush team, if
that’s what this was about. But I still wasn’t going to wait exactly where I’d
told him.
I headed out and walked a hundred yards east, then ducked into an alley. I put
my back to the east side of a loading dock, where anyone moving west would
have to look backward to see me. Four minutes later, I watched Boaz go past.
He was wearing shorts, a loud Hawaiian shirt, and sandals, and a large
backpack was slung over both shoulders. He might have been a European tourist
on his way to a hostel somewhere.
I eased out, checking behind and across the street. I didn’t see any problems.
“Boaz,” I called out.
He turned, keeping his hands at his sides.
“Ah, I didn’t think you’d be where you told me,” he said.
“Just come this way. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
He complied. We cut down Claymore Road. I glanced behind as we moved. No one
was following.
Harry’s bug detector was buzzing in my pocket. “You have a mobile phone?” I
asked him.
“Of course.”
“Reach for it slowly and turn it off.”
He shrugged and slipped his hand into one of the front pockets of his shorts.
Harry’s detector fell silent.
“Are you armed?” I asked.
“Only with something sharp. Nothing that goes bang.”
I steered us into another alley. “Face the wall,” I said. “I’m going to pat
you down.”
“I don’t see how we can accomplish our objectives with this level of
mistrust,” he said, his expression grave.
“Boaz, a year ago, your organization was trying to kill me. Turn around.”
He shrugged. While I patted him down, he said, “That was situational, you
know, and personally I regretted it.”
He was wearing an FS HideAway knife in a sheath around his neck, the same kind
Delilah had introduced Dox to a year earlier. For the moment, I didn’t bother
with the backpack. He couldn’t access it quickly enough for anything in it to
present a threat.
“I’ll let you keep the knife,” I said, straightening. “Just don’t reach for
your neck suddenly. What’s in the backpack?”

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He smiled. “Camera gear. Take a look.”
“I will as soon as we’re settled. Come on, let’s keep moving.”
“You’re wasting time,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m alone. And if I
weren’t, I wouldn’t have a team follow me now. I’d have them waiting wherever
Hilger is, as soon as you told me. They would know to expect you there
eventually.”
I looked at him, disturbed by the truth of his words. Goddamnit, I was in a
box. And Delilah had caused it.
“We want Hilger,” he said. “Why would we want you? That situation is over. Our
interests are aligned now.”
All right, the hell with it. I didn’t have a choice.
“What do you have for me?” I asked.
He broke out in a big, boyish grin. “Wait’ll you see it.”
We took a cab to a hawker’s market, one of the outdoor food courts that dot
the city and serve cheap, delicious Singaporean food. The centers are popular
and can be crowded and noisy well past midnight, but we were ahead of the
lunchtime crowd and had no trouble getting a table. We sat on plastic chairs
under the shade of a big beach umbrella and enjoyed skewers of chicken and
beef satay washed down with mango juice. While we ate, Boaz invited me to take
a look in the backpack, which he had placed on the concrete floor between us.
I did. As he’d mentioned, the pack seemed to be full of camera equipment: a
Nikon camera body, a variety of lenses, portable lighting equipment, a tripod,
and battery packs.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
He gave me the boyish grin again. “Have you heard of an ‘active denial
system’?”
“No. Should I have?”
“ADS is the Pentagon’s name for a nonlethal millimeter wave energy weapon.
America’s troops have used it in Iraq.”
“Okay…” I said, getting interested.
“It shoots electromagnetic radiation at ninety-five gigahertz. Boils moisture
in the skin, but only to a depth of one sixty-fourth of an inch. So it hurts
like hell, but doesn’t cause damage.”
I glanced down at the backpack. “Your guys have developed a portable version.”
“Correct. The Pentagon’s unit, which they had developed by Raytheon, is
truck-mounted. Very powerful—the range is over a kilometer—but big. What I’ve
got here has to be employed close up, but you can carry it on your back.”
“It goes through walls?” I asked, doubtful.
“That’s…the tricky part. You can adjust the frequency. Shorter-range
frequencies go through walls, yes. But they also cause more damage.”
“So if you don’t calibrate it right…”
“Right, you can cook the hostages along with the terrorists. It looks bad on
TV after. Do it right, though, and no one gets worse than a sunburn.”
I nodded. “What does it feel like?”
He smiled. “You want to try?”
“Just tell me.”
He laughed. “A wise decision. I had it done to me—once. It feels like your
skin is on fire, simple as that. The Sayeret Matkal had a little competition.
Five thousand shekels to anyone who could group three rounds in a five-inch
cluster from ten yards away while being hit with the beam. This is a joke for
these men, they’re expert shooters. Ordinarily they group in one inch from
much farther.”
“What happened?”
He laughed again. “They couldn’t shoot at all. They were too busy writhing and
running away. No one asked to try twice. When word got around about what it
felt like, people stopped volunteering.”
“I like it,” I said.
He nodded. “You should. Without intelligence…”
“Yes, I know. Delilah’s already been persuasive on that point.”
He looked at me. “You’re treating her right?”

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I returned the look. “That’s really none of your business, is it?”
He shrugged. “She’s my colleague, and as close as a sister. We watch each
other’s backs.”
I nodded. “It’s good of you to ask, then.”
“So? You’re treating her right?”
I couldn’t help laughing. He laughed, too. “I know, I know,” he said. “We
Israelis are pushy. You know, there’s no word for ‘Excuse me’ in Hebrew?”
“What?”
He shrugged. “An old joke. But with some truth. If I put my nose where it
doesn’t belong, forgive me.”
“We’re…managing,” I told him, thinking of what she had said to me on the phone
just a few hours earlier. “It’s not easy, though.”
He laughed again. “It never is, my friend. It never is.”
We were quiet for a moment. I said, “You…have a family?”
He nodded. “Three sons and a baby daughter. Thank God we finally had a girl.
My wife was ready to give up. And you?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, after a moment.
We were quiet again, and this time he didn’t push.
“Why did Hilger take your friend?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
He shrugged. “It won’t affect what happens to Hilger.”
“It did affect it. It guaranteed it.”
“Good.”
We finished the food. He said, “So? How do you want to do it?”
I shrugged. “Show me how to use the device. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He nodded. “I owe Delilah a hundred shekels.”
“What?”
“She told me you would say that.”
I looked at him, nonplussed.
“I can’t show you. It takes training and experience. I have to see the
terrain. Set the controls wrong one way, and it has no effect. Wrong the other
way, and you boil your friend’s internal organs. And while you’re trying to
get it right, probably people on the boat will be shooting at you. Don’t be
stupid.”
I didn’t answer.
“Besides,” he went on, “I’ve already got a van, a driver…”
“Jesus, you’re not alone?”
“No one works alone anymore, Rain. You’re the only one I know.”
Again I didn’t answer. I was trying to account for how quickly and thoroughly
I’d lost control of this op. And at the same time thinking, admitting, really,
that my odds of success were better because of it.
“You’ll like Naftali,” he said. “He’s, what do you call it, a wheelman?”
“You could call it that, I guess, yeah,” I said.
“Very serious. I don’t think he knows how to talk.”
“That’ll be refreshing.”
He laughed. “Here’s what I propose. Naftali drives. I operate the device. You
do the shooting. I assume you’re equipped?”
“With a cannon.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing. I’m equipped. And I already have a driver.”
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“I’m not. I think we’re all going to have to sit down together. If we don’t
coordinate…”
“You’re right, it will be a cluster fuck.”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at me, and I nodded to show that I
appreciated his use of the idiom. “Yes,” I said. “A cluster fuck.”
He smiled. “And you’re sure Hilger will be on the boat, as Delilah says?”
I didn’t hesitate, or give any other indication that I was lying. “Yeah,” I
said. “I’m sure.”
“Good. Then let’s sit down with our two drivers. We don’t have much time.”

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29
HILGER STEPPED OFF THE BOAT, leaving Guthrie and Pancho with Dox. He needed to
check the bulletin board, and preferred to do so from anonymous points like
Internet cafés. He was able to tell where Rain was accessing it, and although
he had taken steps to ensure that Rain couldn’t do the same thing on the other
end, a little extra caution never hurt.
He did a surveillance detection route, then caught a cab to the Ritz-Carlton,
where he logged in at their business center. No response from Rain, but…
He checked, and sure enough, Rain had accessed the board a few hours earlier,
from Paris. He must have gone back there after New York. That’s where he’d
been when they first grabbed Dox. Maybe he was living there these days.
Something to consider, if they didn’t wrap him up soon somewhere else.
He wondered why Rain hadn’t responded. Maybe he hadn’t felt the need to.
Hilger had told him to call at 08:00 GMT; maybe Rain simply planned to comply.
Or maybe Rain had found unpersuasive Hilger’s protestations of innocence about
what had happened outside Accinelli’s apartment. So what, though? They still
had Dox, meaning Rain had no choice but to play along. Playing along meant, at
a minimum, calling in to make sure Dox was still okay. At which point, Hilger
would deny everything again, assure Rain there was a third target, and just
keep stringing the man along for another couple of days. Once Rotterdam was
done, he’d give Rain a fictitious target and finish him off when he showed up
for the job. But for now, Rotterdam was the main thing. He needed to focus on
that.
He went to a pay phone and called Boezeman. They had never met—Demeere had
recruited and run Boezeman precisely to keep his knowledge of Hilger’s
operation as limited as possible—but they also had a backup plan, just in
case. Agency SOP, and Hilger still followed it. Because if something happens
to the primary case officer, how do you make contact with his assets? And how
do you establish your bona fides when you do?
Demeere had implied to Boezeman that he was fronting a heroin operation.
Demeere had never said so in so many words, of course; just a wink here and a
nudge there, and Boezeman had filled in the details he was most comfortable
with. Why else would the blond Belgian want a Rotterdam port security official
to escort him onto the facilities, look the other way while he removed
something from a shipping container, and escort him out? For a million dollars
U.S., it had to be drugs, and a big shipment at that. And it wasn’t as though
anyone was going to be hurt by it. Holland’s drug laws were the most liberal
in the world, but they were still fundamentally silly, distinguishing between
“soft” drugs, like cannabis and magic mushrooms, on the one hand, and heroin
and cocaine, on the other. But people wanted them all, and what right did the
government have to interfere with that? Or with a man’s right to profit so
handsomely from the government’s hypocrisy?
The problem, Boezeman had explained to Demeere, was access. Only the head of
security had the authority, official and perceived, to move an unauthorized
person around the way the Belgian wanted. Didn’t the head of security take
vacation? Demeere had asked. Boezeman had laughed at that, pointing out that
Henk Jannick hadn’t taken a vacation in more than two years. Well, we can
wait, Demeere had assured him. Maybe something will come up, and you’ll find
yourself in a position where you can help me.
The phone rang twice on the other end, then three times. It was six in the
morning in Amsterdam. Maybe Boezeman turned his mobile off at night, although
most Europeans Hilger knew never did.
Then a voice cut in: “Hoi.”
“Hello, Mister Boezeman?” Hilger said.
“Yes, speaking,” the man said, switching to English.
“My name is James Hillman, and I’m a friend of William Detts. He told you I
might be calling, right?”
“Uh, yes, he did.”
“Well, unfortunately, William can’t make it to Amsterdam as he was hoping. But
perhaps you could hold open that rental property he discussed for me? The one

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with the western view and the sunsets?”
The reference to rental property and the rest was a prearranged signal that
would establish Hilger’s bona fides. He waited for the prearranged response.
“Yes,” Boezeman said. “It’s a good property, and the sunrises are even better
than the sunsets. I can hold it for you.”
“Wonderful. I expect to travel to Amsterdam in the next two days. Perhaps you
could show me the property then?”
“I’d be happy to. Just let me know your itinerary.”
“I’ll call again as soon as I have the details. I assume you take cash?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements, and call you again shortly.”
He hung up, relieved that it had gone smoothly. It wouldn’t have been the
first time an asset forgot his fallback instructions, but Demeere had clearly
drilled the man well. Damn, he would be hard to replace. He’d reeled in
Boezeman so efficiently after Accinelli had introduced them at that conference
in New York, and then managed him perfectly afterward.
It had taken a while to get everything else in place. First, they’d needed the
material. Accinelli had come through there. Cesium 137 was a radioactive
element and therefore highly regulated, but Accinelli was willing to fudge the
paperwork at Global Pyrochemical Industries and provide it to a fellow Gulf
War veteran he trusted, who he believed was still with the Agency. Hilger had
hinted that the cesium was being used to develop a new kind of ion propulsion
engine for the military, a black program, totally off the books, everything
acquired from private sources without any official government funding.
Accinelli was a patriot, and was pleased to be able to leverage his success in
the private sector in the interests of national security.
The only problem was that Accinelli knew of the Hilger–Demeere–Boezeman link.
When the operation was completed at Rotterdam, it would be worldwide news. The
initial explosion would be trivial—only a hundred pounds of TNT—and, with a
little luck, wouldn’t even produce casualties. It was the fallout, literal and
figurative, that would get all the attention.
Cesium 137 emitted gamma rays. Less toxic than the alpha rays emitted by, say,
uranium, but prone to travel farther. Even better, cesium was hugely reactive,
and combined eagerly with other elements. Roofing materials, concrete,
soil…none of it could be cleaned afterward.
Thankfully, the people exposed to the radiation would be at minimal risk. The
body could process half a cesium exposure in less than a hundred days.
Strontium 90, another ingredient they had considered, would have been absorbed
by bone, and the body would need thirty years to excrete half a dose of that.
Overall, a one-mile swath—not coincidentally, the heart of Rotterdam’s
refinery facilities—would see an increase of cancer rates to one in ten
thousand. Only a .05 percent jump, and that would only be for anyone stupid
enough to stick around afterward, but it would be enough to turn the area into
a no-go zone for decades. Very low casualties, but a very high fear factor. No
wonder people called radiological bombs “weapons of mass disruption.”
The key was to detonate the device at the very center of the refinery
facilities. To do that, someone needed to access it on the premises, ensure
that it was properly placed, arm it, and leave before it exploded. That meant
cooperation from an inside man. It meant Boezeman.
But knowing the connection to Boezeman, Accinelli would have suspected his
cesium had been involved. With Accinelli gone, that link was severed. He had
been a good man, and was now another unfortunate casualty, another Hilger
would have to live with. But the alternatives—the costs of inaction—were
infinitely worse. And he wasn’t asking anyone to make a sacrifice he wasn’t
willing to make himself.
It had gone so smoothly at first. They’d taken possession of the cesium,
assembled the device, and sealed it in a lead-and-concrete container to
prevent detection by the port radiation scanners that were coming into vogue
since 9/11. As soon as Dox was taken and they’d made contact with Rain, they
sent the device to an accommodation address in Rotterdam by commercial sea

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shipping, knowing it would have to go through the port. While it was on its
voyage, Rain had killed Jannick. The man was so damn efficient that he’d
actually gotten ahead of schedule, and they had to make him wait so Demeere
could set up in New York to ambush him when he came for Accinelli.
Hilger knew Accinelli well, well enough to know his friend always kept some
pretty young thing, usually a struggling artist or aspiring actress, in an
apartment or loft. Demeere had traveled to New York a few weeks earlier,
tailed Accinelli, and discovered the whereabouts of Accinelli’s latest. They
had discussed it, and decided that, capable as he was, Rain would discover her
existence, too, and that because the woman’s apartment represented more
favorable terrain than either Accinelli’s home or office, Rain would likely
hit Accinelli when he went to visit the woman. That’s where Demeere had
decided to lay the ambush. But something had gone wrong. Somehow, Rain had
seen it coming.
Hilger realized now he’d been too ambitious. Demeere could have silenced
Accinelli, and they could have taken Rain out another time, another place. But
the opportunity to have Accinelli dispatched naturally, like Jannick, raising
no questions, and to set up Rain up simultaneously, had been so perfect…too
perfect, he understood in retrospect. After all, the perfect is always the
enemy of the good.
So, yes, there had been losses, but there always are in war. And on balance,
things could be worse. Boezeman was still game. They still had Dox. And
Rain…the man was resilient, no doubt. But no one was bulletproof. He was going
down. And Hilger would relish it when it happened.
30
THIS TIME, when Kanezaki opened his door in response to my knock, he didn’t
have any smart comments about whether I was coming in. He just stood there,
looking at Boaz, Naftali, and me. He didn’t say a word, but I didn’t need to
be psychic to know what he was thinking: some variation on the time-honored
What the fuck?
I smiled. “May we come in?”
“I guess so,” he said, moving aside so we could all file past him.
We all sat across from each other along the edges of the beds. “Tom, Boaz,
Naftali,” I said, gesturing as appropriate. Boaz had been right about Naftali.
The man hadn’t said a word since I’d met him. There was something familiar
about him, but I couldn’t place what.
There was a round of uneasy handshakes, and I went on. “I’m sure we can
imagine our various affiliations, and they don’t really matter anyway. What
matters is, we all showed up here for the same thing and we don’t want to trip
over each other’s dicks trying to get it. With me so far?”
Everyone nodded. Boaz smiled and said, “Trip over our dicks?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It means…”
“No, no, I get it. I like it. It’s better than ‘cluster fuck.’”
“They’re a little different,” Kanezaki said, and Boaz nodded to show he was
eager to hear more. “A cluster fuck is…”
“Not that it’s not important, but why don’t we do the language lesson later?”
I said.
No one responded, and I went on. “I want my friend safely off that boat. You
all want Hilger dead.” I paused again, locking eyes just for an instant with
Kanezaki. “We know Hilger’s on the boat now, but don’t know for how much
longer. So we need to move fast.”
Kanezaki’s face betrayed nothing, and I went on. “We know the general layout
of the yacht club. What we don’t know is the precise location of Hilger’s
boat, the nature of the opposition on board, whether any sentries are posted
off the boat, and where Dox is being held on the boat. What I propose is this.
We’ve got two vans. We use both, arriving separately. Naftali and Tom, you
wait in the vans, engines running. Hilger knows my face, and probably Tom’s,
too, so we’re the wrong guys for reconnaissance. That’s Boaz’s job. So far, so
good?”
Everyone nodded. Kanezaki said, “What do we know about club security? Can Boaz

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just walk in?”
“Let’s find out,” Boaz said. He nodded to Naftali, who tossed him a mobile
phone. “Sterile unit,” Boaz said. He dialed a number from memory.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m interested in chartering a fishing boat. Is that
possible? No, not for today. You do, good. Two boats? Oh, the
twenty-two-footer should be fine. Look, this is for an important client and
I’d like to see the facilities. Can I do that? Yes? Right, Chan, I’ll ask for
you, thank you. I’ll be by tomorrow or the next day. Yes, of course, my name
is Vanya. If you’re not there, though, can I just…stroll around by myself,
take a look at the boats? Of course, of course, I would never board a boat
without the captain’s permission. Yes, thank you.”
He clicked off and looked at us. “The operation is off. Chan says we can’t
board a boat without the captain’s permission.”
No one said anything, and he shrugged. “Just a joke. Security’s not an
obstacle, at least not initially. But this raises a question. If we have
to…disable security, how far do we go?”
The answer was so obvious to me that for a second, I didn’t follow him. “You
mean…”
“At all costs, we want to avoid the loss of innocent life. It’s our most
important rule of engagement.”
“Sorry, can you define that phrase, ‘all costs’?” I said. “And what do you
mean, ‘rule’?”
He sighed. “Well, sometimes it’s more of a guideline than a rule. The real
world can be messy. But we try very hard.”
“All right, I agree to try hard,” I said. “Fair enough?” He nodded, and I went
on. “Tom’s got some fishing equipment. You carry it with you and scope the
area, checking all the spots where you would place a sentry if you were
Hilger. Have you got a wireless earpiece to use with one of those phones?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Good, so do I, and that’s how we’ll stay in touch as you stroll around. No
telling what you’ll find, so you’ll just have to inform me and we’ll
improvise.”
He nodded again.
“You keep wandering around, looking the part of afternoon-fishing hobbyist,
until you spot Ocean Emerald. When you find her, you get your equipment ready.
While you’re doing that, I move in.”
“What equipment?” Kanezaki asked.
“What’s your security clearance?” Boaz asked.
Kanezaki scowled at him, and Boaz sighed. “Am I the only one here with a sense
of humor?” he said. He turned to Naftali. “Naftali, was that not funny?”
Naftali might have been made of stone.
Boaz sighed again and turned to Kanezaki. “Well, what can you do…these secrets
always get out sooner or later anyway. Have you heard of an ‘active denial
system’?”
“Of course. The Raytheon technology. Nonlethal millimeter wave energy weapon.”
Boaz laughed and looked at me. “Smart guy.” He gave a quick rundown on the
particulars of his device.
“Okay,” I said when he was done. “When I’m in position, you zap the boat.
Either it’ll fuck up the people on board, increasing my chances of surprising
them, or they’ll haul ass off the boat like their hair’s on fire. Either way,
I drop whoever I encounter and extract Dox.”
“Dox will be locked inside while I’m zapping,” Boaz said.
I nodded. “I’ll apologize to him later.”
“Have you considered how they might have secured him?” Kanezaki asked.
I nodded. “If it’s just a locked door, I’ll shoot the lock out. If it’s ropes,
I’ve got a knife. But you’re right, if he’s in manacles…”
Kanezaki smiled. “I’ve got a pair of four-foot bolt cutters in a nylon case in
the van. Boaz can carry it. We need you mobile, and shooting straight.”
I nodded and gave him a slight smile. “Two heads really are better than one.”
I imagined the terrain for a moment. We were working on the fly. It would be

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so easy to miss something.
“I come off the boat with Dox,” I said. “He’s a big guy, and if he needs
assistance my hands are going to be full. Boaz, you’ll be armed?”
“How do you say it? ‘Fuckin’ A,’ I think?”
“That’s how it’s said. You cover the retreat to the vans. Tom, we ride with
you. Naftali, if anyone tries to follow, you ram. Clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“Whatever you need to bug out, have it with you. Bags, papers, everything.
Assume we can’t come back to our hotels. Now, what are we missing?”
“Probably a dozen things,” Boaz said.
“I know. But there’s no time. We’re not going to get a better chance than
this. Let’s go through it one more time, and then we roll.”
31
DOX SAT ON HIS COT, his eyes closed, his head cocked. He’d felt someone step
off the boat a half-hour earlier. The remaining footsteps told him the one
who’d gotten off had been Hilger. The blond dude had been gone for days now.
If the young guy left, too, that would leave just Uncle Fester. Dox had no
doubt the sick bastard would come calling shortly after that—the taunts had
worked the man to nearly foaming at the mouth before. Well, this time he had a
plan. It wasn’t much, and it was likely to fail, but it was better than
nothing.
He’d wondered many times in his life whether, if the worst happened, he’d fall
apart, or if he’d have the courage to go out swinging. He’d heard stories of
brave men who’d lost it, their nerve, their backbone, whatever, at the moment
of truth. He hoped he wouldn’t be one of them, but he supposed you could never
really know until that moment came.
He listened, grimacing slightly with the effort of straining for even the
tiniest sounds. Footsteps, a door opening…then a heavy thud, like something
big falling to the deck. A body, maybe. Then a door again, this time closing,
followed by the click of a lock.
Son of a bitch. It sounded like Fester had dropped the young guy and locked
him in a room somewhere. That could mean only one thing.
He felt a hot rush of adrenaline surge through his torso. This was it. His
moment of truth was on its way right now.
He took two deep breaths and strained against the chains, first left, then
right. He’d been doing what isometrics he could every day since they’d grabbed
him, hoping there would actually be some use to keeping his body from
tightening up. Well, it looked like the effort had been worth it, and he
wanted to be warmed up now. If this had even a prayer of working, he was going
to have to go from zero to a hundred with nothing in between.
Half a minute went by. He heard Fester’s footsteps coming along the corridor.
Then there he was, smiling his psycho smile through the door window while he
turned a key in the lock.
“Hola, maricón,” he said, coming in, holding the battery and wires again. “We
didn’t get to finish our conversation.” He turned and used the key to lock the
door from the inside. “And now no one can interrupt us like last time.” He
slipped the key into his pocket.
“Wait a minute,” Dox said, controlling his voice to keep his pounding heart
from creeping into it. “You mean you’ve had a whole day to stew, a hundred
options to consider, and the best line you could come up with to get some of
your mojo back is—” he switched to an ersatz Mexican accent—“‘We didn’t get to
finish our conversation’?”
Uncle Fester looked at him, nonplussed.
“I mean, you might have said, ‘I like the way you talk, now let’s hear you
scream,’ or, ‘You’re right, I do like to torture people, but I’ve never
tortured anyone like I’m going to torture you.’ What do you think of those?
You can try one, if you like. I won’t tell anyone you got it from me. Go on
back out, we can start over.”
Fester stood there, his eyes burning with hate.
“Well, shit. If you’re going to get your rocks off with me, at least sing to

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me. I’m partial to that Lou Rawls number. You know the one…” He paused, then
broke into song: “You’ll never find, dah dah, dah dah dah…as long as you
live…someone who loves you, tender like I dooooo…”
Fester didn’t move. Whatever script he had in mind, Dox was so far off it the
man couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to do next. Which was the exactly
the idea. Now the trick was to flummox him even worse.
“You’re crazy,” Fester managed to spit out.
“Come on, man, admit what you’re here for. You want my dick, don’t you? It’s
all right. You can have it. Here.”
His heart was pounding so hard now he could feel it in his neck. He stood up
and pulled down the front of the track pants.
“What the fuck?” Fester said.
“It’s all right, man,” Dox said, shuffling toward him. “I’m attracted to you,
too.”
“You’re fucking sick!” Fester hissed, rooted to the spot.
Dox kept moving forward. Eight feet, six…
“Here,” he said, reaching inside with a manacled hand and freeing what a
long-ago girlfriend had christened Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster. “There you
go, it’s okay.”
Five feet. Fester’s face was contorted in horror and confusion.
Three feet. Dox let the track pants snap back in position. He bent at the
waist, aimed with his shoulder—
Fester’s paralysis broke. He turned to the door as though to escape.
With a wild yell, Dox hit him in the back with his full two twenty-five.
Fester slammed face forward into the door and the battery and wires hit the
deck. Dox shuffled back, ready to launch himself again, but the chains slowed
him. Fester turned. Dox shot up from underneath, and the top of his head
nailed Fester in the face with a satisfying crunch. The impact rocked Fester
back into the door. He grabbed Dox’s shoulders on the rebound to try to shove
him away, but Dox surged up against him, his palms forward, the chains cutting
into his wrists. His straining hands found Fester’s package, and he latched on
and squeezed for all he was worth. Fester screamed and tried to jerk away, but
he was up against the door now, Dox’s weight pressed against him. He managed
to shove Dox’s shoulders back but couldn’t break the death grip on his balls.
Dox twisted inside Fester’s hands and slammed up against him again, then
shifted his grip and squeezed harder, yelling now with the effort.
Fester braced his temple against the side of Dox’s head and tried to lever him
away. Dox retracted a fraction and as Fester’s face slipped past him he lunged
forward like an adder and bit down on Fester’s nose. Blood spurted into his
mouth and Fester, shrieking now, managed to jerk to the side and create space.
Dox tried to adjust but again the chains slowed him. An elbow connected with
his cheek but he hung on. He could barely hear Fester screaming now, the whole
of his being was focused on squeezing, squeezing…it was all he had and if he
lost it, if this didn’t put Fester down, where he could bronco stomp him or
knee drop him, he was done.
Fester hit him with another elbow, then a third time, and suddenly Dox was
falling. He couldn’t break the drop with his manacled hands and took the
impact on his shoulder. He brought his legs in, trying to roll away and get to
his feet, but Fester stayed with him, kicking him now, wildly, out of control.
Dox kept rolling, but Fester, screaming, didn’t let up for a second. One of
the kicks connected with the back of his head and he saw an explosion of
white. When the flash faded, Fester had stepped in front of him, and the next
kick caught him squarely in the face. He head rocked back but he couldn’t do
anything to cover up. He tried rolling away again, dazed, but Fester easily
stepped around him and just kept kicking.
Dox managed to roll to one of the walls and fetal up with his face to it, and
for the next minute Fester vented his rage at Dox’s back and legs. The blows
didn’t really hurt, exactly; he was too jacked on adrenaline and fear to feel
much, and anyway there were too many impacts to distinguish. Mostly what he
felt was a series of cascading thuds that reverberated through his body, like

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he’d fallen down under a rock slide.
Finally it stopped. Dox blinked and spat out a mouthful of blood, his or
Fester’s or both he didn’t know. He tried to get his feet under him, but he
couldn’t move. He wondered distantly whether Fester had cracked his spine.
Well, it didn’t really matter now.
He felt the heel of Fester’s boot in his shoulder, easily turning him onto his
back. He lay there, numb and exhausted and helpless. Fester squatted next to
him, his breath heaving, his nose mangled and his face a bloody mask, and
presto—a blade appeared in his hand. He took Dox by the hair and brought his
face close.
“You like showing your dick, motherfucker?” he hissed, his teeth strangely
white through all the blood. “You know what I’m going to do now? Cut it off
for you and stuff it in your mouth. And your balls with it.”
Dox spat a huge wad of blood and phlegm into Fester’s face. He did it without
thinking, but he was immediately glad. Without exactly meaning to, he’d
answered the question of how he would leave this world, and he’d answered it
well. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was all he had now, and he held on to it
tight, hoping it would carry him through the rest.
Fester wiped the glob from his face and flung it away. He kneeled on Dox’s
chest, driving the breath out of him. Dox tried to twist away, but he might as
well have been nailed to the deck.
“Here it comes, motherfucker,” Fester said. “I hope you like the taste.”
32
HOW’S IT COMING?” I said, into the wireless earpiece I was wearing.
“Good,” Boaz answered. His words were slightly slurred, and I understood it
was because he was talking without moving his lips. “A lovely afternoon. So
far no one who looks like a sentry.”
“I can see you now,” I said, and it was true, his Hawaiian shirt was
impossible to miss, even without the binoculars. That was part of the point—he
looked like the antithesis of someone trying not to be spotted. If you’re
going to be noticed anyway, you’re better off hiding in plain sight.
I was kneeling in the back of Kanezaki’s van. The van was configured for
cargo, not passengers, and had no seats beyond the two in front. We were
parked nose out in the yacht club parking lot. Naftali was diagonal to us,
facing us from twenty feet away. Both vans had a pair of fake plates
magnetically attached over the real ones. Layers again.
“Good, good, everything is good,” Boaz said, taking his time, a fishing pole
slung over his shoulder, the camera pack and the bolt cutter case hanging off
his back, the Nikon dangling from his neck. He was wearing a baseball cap and
shades, a sensible enough precaution against the strong tropical sun. The
blond wig protruding from the back and sides of the cap would be a little more
difficult to explain on practical grounds alone, but it would certainly throw
off witnesses. The rest of us were similarly attired.
I watched him go down the first perpendicular pier. With the binoculars, I
could make out the names of a few of the boats, but not many. I didn’t see
Ocean Emerald.
“Don’t see it yet,” I heard him say, and watched him turn around. He walked
back to the main pier, then repeated the operation on the second
perpendicular. I scanned the area, looking for anyone reacting to him.
Everything seemed okay.
I watched him walk down the third perpendicular, then the fourth. I started to
get nervous. What if they’d put to sea? Maybe Hilger got spooked, decided
they’d been in Singapore too long, put the boat in north to Malaysia, south to
Indonesia. Or he’d changed the boat’s name somehow. Or Kanezaki’s intel was
off…
Boaz walked to the very end of the pier and made a right on the last
perpendicular. He strolled slowly along. The bows of the boats were facing
toward me, and so was Boaz, as he examined their sterns.
“It’s here,” he said, continuing to walk to the end of the perpendicular as
though appreciating all the lovely yachts. “Halfway. I just went to the other

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side of it.”
“I’m on my way,” I said. I stepped out of the van, a fishing rod in my hand,
the coveralls concealing the HK on my thigh, my heart starting to kick with
adrenaline.
I crossed the parking lot, my pores immediately yawning open in the sticky
heat. Ahead of me was a red brick building; behind it, I knew from the
satellite photos, a swimming pool, from which the sounds of children’s
laughter carried over to me now. Two Chinese men in golf clothes came through
the doors to the club, presumably heading to a nearby course. They ignored me
as they passed.
I walked straight down the access road to the pier, my head swiveling as I
moved, searching for danger, so far spotting none.
“No sentries I can see on the craft,” Boaz said, avoiding the b’s and p’s and
m’s that would force him to purse his lips.
“Roger that,” I said. Near the second line now.”
“I think this is a good location to take a few photos.”
I kept moving, looking for problems. Several of the boats had little parties
in progress on their decks, prosperous middle-aged Chinese and foreign men in
white captain’s hats, women in shorts and bathing-suit tops, the smell of beer
and barbecue, the sounds of carefree laughter. I passed several people moving
to and from the main clubhouse, everyone in shorts and boating shoes, suntans
and white smiles. Life was good for these people. Not one of them gave me even
a second glance.
I passed the fourth perpendicular. I could see Boaz now, halfway down the
fifth. He had erected a tripod with what looked like a professional
photographer’s auxiliary light set atop it, the light set in the center of a
large metallic umbrella, the whole thing connected to an exceptionally large
rectangular battery pack. He was working the controls of a device the average
person would assume was a light meter.
“You ready?” I said.
“Ready.”
I turned onto the fifth perpendicular and began heading toward Boaz. The
gloves Kanezaki had thoughtfully provided were in my pocket, and I pulled them
on as I walked. I set down the fishing pole, then reached inside the coveralls
and came out with the HK. I held it along my leg, the muzzle of the suppressor
past my knee, and kept moving in. I wished there were some cover or
concealment, but the terrain was what it was. I hoped Boaz’s ray gun was as
good as he claimed.
“Five, four, three, two, one,” I said, still walking casually toward him.
“Go.”
33
AT FIRST, Dox thought the hot flush was a fear reaction. After all, a sadistic
sociopath he’d provoked to murderous rage was athwart his chest, a second away
from gelding him. The only thing that could have surprised him at that point
was the wonder that he’d managed not to piss himself.
But within a half-second, he understood it wasn’t a hot flush, although he had
no better explanation. It felt like he’d touched a burning lightbulb, except
not just with his fingertips, but with his whole body. Then, before he could
even complete the What the fuck? thought he was forming, his entire body was
on fire, like someone had doused him head-to-toe in kerosene and set him
alight. He howled in agony and writhed under Fester’s knee. Then Fester was
off him, shrieking, rolling on the deck as though his clothes were ablaze and
he was trying to put himself out.
Dox strained against the chains, sure he was on fire and utterly confused
about where it had come from and why he couldn’t see the flames. He managed
one coherent thought—Out of the frying pan, into the fire—and then all he
could do was howl and hope it would be over soon.
34
A SECOND AFTER Boaz engaged the device, a cacophony of shrieks emanated from
belowdecks on the boat. Among them, I recognized Dox’s baritone roar, and was

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seized with conflicting emotions: relief that he was alive, horror at the
level of pain that could have produced that agonized wail.
I stood there, helpless, the HK in front of me now in a two-handed grip,
waiting for someone to stumble off the boat so I could shoot. Nothing
happened. If anything, the screaming got worse.
In my peripheral vision, I saw movement on the adjacent craft. I glanced left
and right to confirm there was no danger. Civilians, looking out from their
boats now to see what was causing the ruckus.
“What’s happening over there?” a Caucasian man yelled in English from the boat
to my left.
“Police matter, sir,” I called back in my best command voice. “Please just
stay on your craft and keep your head down. There could be shooting and I
wouldn’t want you or your family injured.”
The man disappeared without another word.
The screaming went on. Goddamnit, why aren’t they trying to get off the boat?
“Turn it off!” I said. “They must be stuck belowdecks. I’m going in.”
“It’s off,” I heard him say. In my peripheral vision, I saw him pull a pistol
from a bellyband. I half turned to him, but he was pointing the gun at the
boat, not at me.
“Stay there,” I said. “We might need heat again.” I jumped onto the deck and
moved to the stairs.
The screaming had stopped. I paused at the edge of the entrance, glanced down,
and pulled my head back. With my eyes adjusted to the glare outside, I
couldn’t see what was below. I pulled off the shades and jammed them in a
pocket.
Another quick peek. Nothing. Still no screaming.
There were only six stairs. I leaped over all of them and landed in a squat on
the deck below. I pivoted, the gun out, tracking for danger. Still nothing. I
was in a narrow corridor. There were three doors, all closed, all on my right,
all with small windows.
I moved up next to the first of them and snuck a quick peek through the
window, then away. Nothing.
I checked the second one the same way. Again, nothing.
I checked the third. Dox, lying on his back, in shackles. A bald guy, his face
covered in blood, holding a knife, staggering toward him.
I grabbed the knob. It was locked. Fuck.
I stepped to the side, closed one eye to ensure that if I got hit with debris
I’d only be half-blinded, brought up the HK, and fired three rapid shots into
the door jamb inside the knob. The HK whispered and kicked in my hands. Wood
splinters exploded past me.
I stepped back and launched a front kick just to the side of the knob. The
door blasted inward. The bald guy spun to face me. I put two rounds in his
chest. He staggered back to the wall and crumbled to the deck.
There was no one else in the room but Dox. I knelt beside him, the gun up,
facing the door. “How many others on the boat?” I said. “Do you know?”
“One other,” he grunted. “One other.”
“Hilger?”
“No. Someone else. I think he’s locked in one of the…”
From two doors down came the staccato crack of a half-dozen rapid pistol
shots. The guy Dox was talking about, in one of the rooms I’d passed. The
windows were small, and I’d been moving quickly. I must have missed him.
There was no cover in the room. I moved up stealthily along the wall, keeping
the HK aimed at the door, waiting.
Nothing happened. Whoever he was, he was smart. The defender in a fixed
position has a significant advantage over the aggressor who comes looking for
him. He knew it, and he was waiting for me to pass him on the way out.
Fuck, I didn’t have time to play it this way. Club security, cops…we had to
get out of here.
“Give me five seconds of heat,” I whispered into the earpiece. “Exactly five
seconds.”

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“Jesus Christ, not again,” Dox mumbled from behind me.
“Three, two, one,” I heard Boaz say, and then my skin was on fire.
An involuntary scream tore loose from my throat, with Dox offering a chorus
from the deck behind me. I fought the illusion that the gun was red-hot and
battled the overwhelming urge to drop it. It was all I could do to stay on my
feet. Whoever was down the hall, the only advantage I had was that I knew what
this was, and that it would last only five seconds.
It seemed like a lot longer. But then it was gone, as suddenly as it had
started. I gritted my teeth and charged into the hallway.
There—the first door I had passed. It was open, the wood around the jamb torn
up by pistol shots. I sprinted down to the edge of the frame and stopped.
“Again—three seconds,” I whispered.
“Three, two, one,” I heard again, and again my nerve endings exploded in fire.
I shook with pain, with the effort of not screaming. From inside the room, I
heard a long wail. Then, so suddenly it seemed a miracle, the pain was gone. I
took a deep breath and spun into the room.
There he was, on the right, splayed on the floor. I brought the HK around.
Whoever he was, he was as quick as I’ve ever seen. He snapped the gun forward
and simultaneously rolled to his left. I felt something slam into my chest and
heard the double crack of successive pistol shots. I staggered back into the
wall and returned fire. My first two shots landed short, but they made him
flinch. I walked the muzzle up an inch and kept firing. Again, I was short,
but the second two rounds ricocheted along the deck and into his body. He
curled up and I kept firing, three times more, two to his torso, the last in
his head. He dropped his gun and lay still.
I could barely breathe. Gritting my teeth, I dropped the empty magazine,
slammed in a spare, and released the slide. I pressed my left palm to my
chest, then brought it to my eyes, fully expecting it to be covered with
blood. But it wasn’t. The Dragon Skin. I’d gotten the wind knocked out of me,
but it seemed that was all.
I picked up and pocketed the empty mag and staggered back down the hallway.
Dox had gotten to his knees, but hadn’t managed any further than that.
Amazingly, the bald guy was holding onto the cot, halfway to standing. I
brought up the HK.
“Don’t,” Dox said. “Don’t, don’t, don’t do that.”
I turned my head, but kept the muzzle of the gun on the bald guy. “What?” I
said.
“Don’t you kill him,” Dox said, coming shakily to his feet. “Give me the gun.”
“There’s no time…”
“Give me the fucking gun!” he screamed.
You have to know when to argue with people, and when not to. This was clearly
a “not to” situation.
Dox staggered toward me, and I leaped forward and grabbed his arm before he
could fall. I placed the gun in his manacled hands and walked him over to the
bald guy. The bald guy watched us coming. His arms shook, and he lost his hold
on the cot. He sank to his knees, then slumped to his side, panting and
trembling.
Dox stood directly over him. He aimed the gun.
“Just so you know,” he said, “even if I had time, I wouldn’t do to you what
you were going to do to me.”
The bald guy started to say something. Dox didn’t wait to hear what. Without
another word, he emptied the full magazine into the bald guy’s face. Twelve
muffled shots, each fading into the next. Bone and brain matter flew.
He stood for a second, swaying slightly, looking down at what he had done.
Then he handed me the smoking pistol. He buckled, and I grabbed his arm to
support him.
“Good,” he said. “That was worth ten thousand dollars in therapy right there.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare mag.”
He nodded. “I figured you did.”
I swapped in a fresh magazine, then pulled out an extra baseball hat and

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jammed it on his head. I eased a pair of shades over his eyes. “You look
good,” I said.
“Just get me out of here, man.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “That’s what I’m here for.”
I put on my own shades, took his arm, and helped him down the corridor. “We’re
on our way,” I said, into the earpiece. “Just the two of us. Get out the bolt
cutters, be ready.”
“Hurry,” Boaz said. “We have a lot of attention.”
I holstered the HK and kept us going. I didn’t know the nature of Dox’s
injuries, but he was having a hard time moving, even beyond the limits of the
shackles. It took a full minute to get him up the stairs.
Crossing the deck, I saw Boaz was right. There were people staring at us from
half a dozen boats. Several groups on foot had stopped and were watching to
see what the commotion was. Come on, I thought. Come on, come on….
Boaz reached out and helped Dox hop onto the pier. The chains were heavy, but
there’s not much that will stand up to four feet of bolt cutters. Boaz moved
in and, three well-placed snaps later, Dox had the use of his hands and feet
again. The manacles themselves we could worry about later.
Boaz had already packed up the heater. He shouldered the gear while I scanned
the crowd for danger, so far seeing nothing worse than gawkers. Then we set
off toward the main pier, hurrying now, Dox’s giant arms around our shoulders,
his chains clanking as we moved.
“This man’s hurt!” I called out to the people who were staring at us.
“Somebody call a doctor!” There, that ought to make us look more like the good
guys and lower the chances of someone disputing our passage. Theoretically.
We made a left onto the main pier and kept moving. I saw that Kanezaki had
backed all the way to the edge of the pier. Boaz must have called him. But
Christ, it was taking us forever. Why the fuck did the boat have to be on the
farthest perpendicular? I thought. Murphy’s Law. Unbelievable.
People stared at us as we walked by. No one said anything, or tried to
interfere.
Fifty feet out from the access road, I started to think we were going to make
it. I could see the exhaust drifting from Kanezaki’s idling engine.
Two uniformed security guys burst through the main clubhouse doors and onto
the pier. They sprinted straight at us. Each was wearing a sidearm, still
holstered.
“They’re shooting back there!” I cried out in a high voice. “Hurry!”
For one second, I thought they were going to buy it. They looked down the pier
and I could feel their attention shifting. Then their eyes came back to us,
their expressions hardening.
For all his concern about rules of engagement, Boaz had his pistol out as fast
as I did. “Do not reach for your weapons,” I said, loudly and evenly, pointing
the HK at the guy in front of me, while Boaz covered the other man.
Neither said a word. Their mouths dropped open and their hands crept north.
Whatever they were paid to provide “security” at the yacht club, this wasn’t
part of the job description.
“Over the side,” I said. “Into the water.” Neither moved. I pointed the
gigantic suppressed muzzle of the HK directly at the guy’s face, suddenly
pleased at the intimidating size of the thing, and shouted, “Now!”
He jumped in without another word. The other guy followed him an instant
later.
“Very humane of you,” Boaz said, and we kept hustling forward down the pier.
The automatic side door of Kanezaki’s van slid open. We helped Dox in, then
followed inside. Kanezaki pulled smoothly away.
“You got him?” Boaz said to me.
For an instant, I didn’t even know what he was talking about. “Who?”
“Hilger.”
I shook my head. “He wasn’t on the boat.”
“Damn it,” he said. “Delilah told me…” He stopped and smiled. “Well, I guess
she was wrong.”

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“Intel,” I said. “What can you do.”
He laughed. “I think maybe things between you two are better than you let on.”
Dox was lying on his back on the floor. I used the bolt cutters to get the
manacles off him. While I cut, Boaz called Naftali. He was a half-mile behind
us, and there was no pursuit.
Kanezaki pulled over. I removed the fake plates and we set out again.
We kept driving. Naftali called again. Still all clear.
It looked like we were going to make it. I pulled off the hat and shades and
patted Dox’s shoulder. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like shit.”
He looked it, too. He was pale and he was having trouble breathing. Adrenaline
was probably masking a lot of his pain, but that wasn’t going to last much
longer. I knew Kanezaki had morphine in the medical kit. I got out a syringe
and gave Dox a hit.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Oo-rah,” he said. “John Rain, my angel of mercy.”
I laughed.
“Who’s driving this thing, anyway?” he said.
“It’s me, Dox,” Kanezaki called from up front. “Tom.”
“Good to have you here, man,” Dox said, his voice a little stronger now,
rallying from the morphine. “I’d shake your hand and thank you properly, but
I’m a little laid up at the moment. And who’s this?”
Boaz pulled off the hat, wig, and shades. “Boaz,” he said.
Dox held up his hand and Boaz shook it.
“I didn’t know John had other friends,” Dox said, the words slurring slightly.
“I thought I was his only one.”
Boaz smiled. “I guess that’s why he wanted to get you off that boat so much.”
“My skin’s starting to hurt,” Dox said. “What did you guys use, some kind of
millimeter wave device?”
“Am I the only one who’s never heard of these things?” I said, and heard
Kanezaki laugh.
“Sorry,” Boaz said. “Calibrating the waves isn’t an exact science. You
probably have first-degree burns, maybe second.”
Dox laughed, grimacing as he did so. “Jesus Christ, you think I give a rat’s
ass about a sunburn? Uncle Fester back there was fixing to decapitate Nessie.”
Kanezaki glanced back. “Nessie?”
“Please don’t ask him,” I said.
“If you’d shown up ten seconds later, I’d be singing in a girl’s choir
somewhere, I’ll tell you that,” he said, laughing and grimacing harder.
“Goddamn, I’m telling you, that was a near, near thing.”
Then his voice cracked. “I…ah, fuck, this is embarrassing,” he said. “I really
thought I was dead, though, I…ah, fuck.”
He lay there, gritting his teeth and shaking, and the tears rolled silently
down his face. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead,” I said. “Get it out.”
“Why did it have to be in front of you?” he said, half laughing, half crying.
“You never puke, you never cry, and you’re going to make fun of me for this
for the rest of my life.”
“I’m going to tell all your lady friends, too,” I said, and he laughed again
through the tears.
It lasted another minute, then played itself out. “Thanks for bailing me out,”
he said, looking around. “All of you. You too, Boaz, whoever you are. I will
not, ever, forget it.”
“I’m glad we could help,” Boaz said. “And I’m sorry about the sunburn.”
Dox tilted his head back toward Kanezaki. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Singapore,” Kanezaki said. “On the way to a private jet at Changi. We’ll be
there in five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” Dox said. “Good. ’Cause I’ve got a joke to tell.”
“You don’t really have to,” I said, familiar with Dox’s notions of comedy.
“Tell me,” Boaz said, with the boyish grin.
“I swore I’d tell John the kabunga joke if I came out of this alive, and I

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mean to keep my word, even high on morphine.”
“You really don’t have to…” I tried again, but he was already rolling.
“There are these three missionaries,” he said, “and they get captured by a
nasty tribe of aborigines deep in the jungle.” He looked at Boaz. “You don’t
know this one, do you?”
Boaz shook his head. “Keep going.”
“Well, the aborigines tie them up and set them down before the chief, who as
it happens speaks a little English. The chief says to them, ‘We are a hostile
tribe, and we despise you and your missionary ways. So you have only two
choices. Death or…kabunga.’ Then he gestures to the first missionary and says,
‘Choose!’
“Well, the man doesn’t know what this kabunga business is, but he knows what
death is, all right, and he knows he doesn’t want that. So he looks at the
chief and says, ‘I choose…kabunga.’
“The chief raises his arms and cries out, ‘Kabunga!’ And a dozen warriors rush
out. They throw this boy down, pull off his clothes, and sodomize him but
good.”
“There’s a theme in your jokes, are you aware of that?” I said.
Boaz said, “Shhh. I like it. Keep going.”
“So now the chief looks at the second missionary, and he says, ‘My friend,
what do you choose? Will it be death, or…kabunga?’
“Well, this boy knows what kabunga is now, and he doesn’t want any of it. But
choosing death, well, that’d be suicide, and suicide is against his religious
principles. So he swallows hard and says to the chief, ‘I…I choose…kabunga.’
“The chief raises his arms and cries out, ‘Kabunga!’ And once again, a dozen
warriors rush out, and they have their way with this boy, and it goes on for
an awful hour. Finally, it’s over. The chief looks at the third missionary and
says, ‘What will it be, my friend? Death, or…kabunga?’
“Now this boy’s seen just about all the kabunga he can stand. And even though
it’s against his religious principles, and even though he knows death is the
end, he just can’t face kabunga. So he screws up all his courage, sticks out
his chin, looks the chief straight in the eye, and says, ‘I choose death!’
“The chief raises his arms and cries out, ‘Death! But first, kabunga!’”
Boaz threw back his head and roared, and his hilarity was infectious. Within
seconds, the inside of the van reverberated with laughter. As Dox had said, it
had been a near, near thing. Laughter was one of the reactions. There would be
others.
“Wait, wait,” Boaz said, wiping his eyes. “I’ve got one, too. These three
missionaries…”
And it went on from there. I had a feeling we would be seeing Boaz again when
all of this was done.
I didn’t mind the thought at all.
35
AT CHANGI, Kanezaki showed his credentials to a uniformed guard. The man spoke
into a radio and waved us through the gate.
“That worked well,” I said.
Kanezaki called someone from his mobile. “We’re on our way,” he said. “Two
minutes.” Then he glanced back at me and smiled. “Low friends in high places.”
We drove through another gate to the part of the airport I assumed was
reserved for private planes. There were two dozen small jets parked on the
tarmac. Kanezaki drove up to one of them. The hatch opened, and a young,
crew-cut man came down the stairs. His back was ramrod straight, his civilian
trousers were creased, and if he wasn’t a Marine, the Marines didn’t exist.
Kanezaki pressed a button and the van’s side door slid open. He got out and
met the Marine around the side.
“Two to transport,” Kanezaki said. “Plus me.”
“Sir,” the Marine said, “I’m not authorized for other passengers.”
“Come over here,” Kanezaki said, and walked the man out of earshot. I watched
them talking. Kanezaki gestured and spoke; the Marine nodded and listened.
After a minute, they came back. The Marine extended a hand to Dox. “Sir, can I

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help you aboard?”
“Yes you can, son, and I’m glad to see they sent the Marines. Just give me
five minutes with these reprobates first, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, and stood off a respectful distance.
“Well, this is the VIP treatment,” Dox said. “What did I do to qualify?”
“The jet is part of a small CIA fleet,” Kanezaki said, “used to render very
bad people to very secret places. You might have read a bit about it in the
newspapers. And that’s all I’m going to say.”
“We know about the program,” Boaz said.
Kanezaki smiled. “I know you do. You’re part of it.”
“What did you tell the pilot?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Mostly I reminded him of the shame he would bear for the rest of
his life if he flew off leaving a wounded Marine behind.”
“That would be me,” Dox said. “Hope you didn’t mention John here was Army.”
Kanezaki laughed. “I didn’t. It must have slipped my mind.”
I watched Kanezaki, strangely moved. He reminded me so much of Tatsu. The way
he was willing to work outside the system to fix the system. The way he
connived to make other people complicit in his nefarious means and noble ends.
“Am I right in assuming,” Boaz said, “that despite Jim Hilger’s surprising
failure to be on the boat as we all expected, we all still want him to
take…early retirement?”
“Hell, yes, you can assume that,” Dox said. He turned to me. “Do you know
where to find him?”
“Feel free to ask me after we’re on the plane,” I said. “You know, when we’re
not right in front of a foreign intelligence operative.” I looked at Boaz. “No
offense.”
Boaz smiled. “None taken.”
“I don’t care if Boaz is from Mars,” Dox said. “I’d trust him to watch my back
anytime. And I hope he’d trust me to watch his.” He looked at Boaz, who nodded
back. “Plus the man appreciates a good joke. Unlike some people I could
mention, despite their possession of other positive attributes. So tell me:
where do we find this miserable, trouser-shitting little dick-puller of a
whining, chickenshit, yellow-bellied, squealing, pissing, piglet motherfucker
and put him down like the rabid dog he is?”
Boaz looked awed. Before he could ask Dox to repeat it all with annotations, I
said, “‘We’ don’t find anyone. You can barely walk. From the way you’re
breathing, your ribs are probably broken and morphine is masking the worst of
it.”
“It’s just a flesh wound,” Dox said with a grimace. “I’ve had worse.”
“You lie,” Boaz said, in a weird British accent. The two of them broke up, Dox
half laughing, half groaning. I didn’t get it.
When they stopped, Boaz said, “It’s true I’m a foreign intelligence operative.
But that’s my, what do you call it, a day job. This operation…let’s just say,
it wasn’t sanctioned by my organization.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Naftali. He’s Gil’s brother.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “I thought he looked familiar.”
“Yes, he looks a bit like Gil. And he’s dangerous like Gil. He doesn’t think
our management has been sufficiently motivated about avenging his brother’s
death.”
“That’s management for you,” Dox said. “If they’re not doing nothing, they’re
overreacting. Never anything in between.”
“You’re on your own on this?” I asked Boaz.
He shrugged. “Certain people…are happy to look the other way while Naftali and
I are on vacation. You know how it works. Sometimes people want something
done, but don’t want to know about it. They don’t want their fingerprints on
it. I believe America’s former defense secretary Rumsfeld was known for this.
The ‘rubber glove syndrome.’ No fingerprints, no attribution.”
“Christ,” I said, “doesn’t anyone just work for the government anymore?”
Dox groaned. “I told you once, man. Privatization is the wave of the future.

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Hey, you don’t think we still have a shot at Hilger here in Singapore, do
you?”
I shook my head. “I doubt Hilger goes to the grocery store for a quart of milk
without five different currencies and three different passports. He’ll come
back to the yacht club, hear the sirens, and just melt away.”
Kanezaki said, “And we can’t wait for him at the club. It’s too hot right now.
We can’t go back.”
“All right, forget Singapore,” Boaz said. “But if you have information about
where we can find Hilger after this, Naftali and I will act on it. Privately,
discreetly, and immediately. You can count on that.”
Kanezaki shrugged. “These secrets always get out sooner or later anyway,” he
said, and Boaz grinned.
I wasn’t surprised. Kanezaki wanted Hilger dead enough to bring me in for it.
Why not the Israelis, too? And it wasn’t as though he would be sharing
classified intel. Everything he knew on this op, he had generated with me.
Kanezaki briefed Boaz on what we knew. When he was done, Boaz said, “So this
port security guy in Amsterdam, Boezeman, you think he’s integral to whatever
Hilger is planning.”
“That’s right,” Kanezaki said.
“And you have his particulars? Work and home addresses, telephone numbers,
photographs?”
“Of course.”
“Who is Hilger working for?”
“I don’t know. There are a lot of groups that would love to take down the
refineries at Rotterdam. AQ, Hamas, Hezbollah…and Hilger is mixed up with all
of them.”
Boaz pursed his lips and blew out. “If you’re right about what Hilger’s been
doing, how long do you think we’ve got before this whole thing goes down?”
Kanezaki nodded as though this was exactly what he’d been considering. “It’s
hard to say. We know he’s been planning Rotterdam for a while, that it’s
important to him. With the losses he’s taken, my guess is, he’ll get to the
Netherlands as soon as he can to see it through.”
Dox said, “If he shipped a device, why not just use a timer? Or a detonator
rigged to a mobile phone? Call the number from wherever and whenever, and
boom.”
Boaz shook his head. “Too many potential problems. The timer isn’t good
because he wouldn’t know precisely when the package arrived. The mobile phone
isn’t good because there might be no reception inside the container. And
either way, he’d be taking a chance that the device might have been damaged or
otherwise rendered inoperable if the container were dropped or mishandled at
sea.”
“Boaz’s specialty is bombs,” I said.
Boaz smiled. “These days, people call them Improvised Explosive Devices. It
sounds more impressive. But nobody gave me a raise for it.”
“Besides,” Kanezaki said, “if he could have done the whole thing remotely, he
wouldn’t have needed Boezeman or any other inside man in the first place.”
Dox nodded. “Right, right. And even if Hilger’s not in town, I’ll bet Boezeman
will have plenty of information that could lead us to him. If he’s asked
nicely, that is.”
“What about your organization?” I said to Boaz. “Feed this to them, they’ll
feed it to…”
“To the Agency,” Boaz said. “Our counterpart relations with the Dutch are…not
strong.”
I shrugged. “Then the Agency will feed it to the Dutch.”
“You can’t be serious,” Kanezaki said. “The Agency’s not going to pass along
anything without studying it first. Most of what we’re going on comes from
unvetted sources and the rest is speculation. They’ll probably never pass it
along at all. Even if they did, I’d say the time frame is a month, minimum. No
one wants to send a warning like this and have it turn out to be false.
Believe me, in a bureaucracy, the fear of looking stupid is stronger than the

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fear of losing Rotterdam. Official channels are a waste of time on this.”
We were all quiet for a moment. Boaz said, “This whole thing may be…a
wild-goose chase, true. But my gut tells me it’s worth looking into. Besides,
I’ve been thinking about visiting Amsterdam. Rain, what about you?”
I looked at Dox. He said, “If you’re not going, I am, I don’t care if I have
to crawl. It’s not just because of whatever nefarious shit Hilger’s up to
there. And it’s not just because I want revenge, either, although hell yes I
do. It’s because Hilger knows we’re going to come after him. First chance he
gets, he’ll be looking to preempt us to improve his own longevity. I refuse to
live my life wondering whether that bastard’s managed to acquire me again.
I’ll take him out first, thank you, and I’ll sleep better because of it.”
We were all quiet again. Dox said, “Besides, if Tom is right, Hilger’s fixing
to do something nasty in Rotterdam, and we’re the only ones in a position to
stop it.”
I thought for a moment. What Dox had said was right, I knew. I didn’t want
Hilger to live any more than he did.
But I was keenly aware also of Kanezaki’s point about doing something to
thwart what Jannick’s and Accinelli’s deaths were intended to foster. I hated
that he’d hit a nerve with that shit. I knew he was manipulating me. But I
also wanted to believe there was some way to undo what I’d done.
I sighed and tilted my head toward Dox. “Let’s get him on the plane.”
Dox shook his head. “I ain’t going anywhere unless you’re going to Amsterdam.”
“I’m going,” I said.
Dox smiled. “All right, good, ’cause I could use a good nurse about now. Boaz,
watch out that he doesn’t sneak off to the red-light district.”
Boaz grinned. “I’ll be careful.”
Dox shook his head. “Goddamn, I wish I could join you boys. The thought of
looking at that little spot between Hilger’s eyes through a Leupold scope…man,
it’s giving me wood right now.”
“All right, time to go,” I said.
Kanezaki called out, “Marine!” The crew-cut guy appeared a second later. He
reached into the van and helped Dox to his feet. Despite his bravado, the big
sniper looked awful. His face was red and blistering and he could barely
support his own weight. But he was alive, and that in itself was a wonderful
thing.
“Good hunting, amigo,” Dox said to Boaz. “When you’re done, I’m going to owe
you a few beers, and then some. We’ll get together and tell each other a few
more jokes.”
Boaz smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”
We all got out of the van. The Marine helped Dox onto the plane.
“What about Naftali?” I asked Boaz.
“He’s returning the other van,” Boaz said. “Better not to leave loose ends.”
He looked at Kanezaki. “What about yours?”
“I’ve got someone to take care of it,” Kanezaki said.
Boaz laughed. “It must be nice to work for a big organization.”
On cue, another young guy came off the plane, a civilian this time, from his
appearance. Probably low-level CIA. Kanezaki tossed him the van keys. “You
know what to do,” he said. The young guy nodded, closed the doors, got in the
van, and drove off.
“I’ll meet you in Amsterdam,” I said to Boaz. “I’ll get the first flight I
can.”
He nodded. “Likewise. I’d offer you a ride, but if I don’t return the plane I
borrowed soon, someone will step on my dick.”
Kanezaki said, “That’s not quite how it’s…”
“All right, let’s get out of here,” I said. “Boaz, I’ll call you on your
mobile. If for some reason I can’t reach you, the backup will be the lobby of
the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, seven in the morning, then seven at night until
we find each other.”
“You know Amsterdam,” Boaz said.
“I’ve been there,” I said, deliberately noncommittal. I was beginning to trust

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Boaz, at least “situationally,” as he might put it, but I still wanted a
backup location with plenty of exits, entrances, and security. In other words,
a difficult place for a hit.
He shook my hand, then Kanzezaki’s, and then walked off, presumably to
whichever of the private jets was his. Kanezaki and I got on the plane. The
Marine went to the cockpit, and five minutes later, Singapore was a thousand
feet below us, and getting farther away by the second.
36
AS THE TAXI PULLED into the parking lot of the Republic of Singapore Yacht
Club, Hilger saw the flashing police lights and the gawkers lined up in front
of the club entrance. He instantly understood and accepted what it all meant.
His heartbeat kicked up a notch, but he didn’t show anything.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe this,” he said to the driver. “I left my laptop at
the hotel. Can you take me back right away?”
The driver swung around. Hilger punched some digits into his mobile phone but
never pressed the “Call” button. He waited a moment, and then, for the
driver’s benefit, said, “Hi, I was just using the computer center and I think
I left my…oh, you found it? Oh, thank God. Yes, I’ll be there in five minutes
to pick it up.”
Next, he called Guthrie’s mobile. No response. That was bad; Guthrie was
always reachable. He tried Pancho next. Again, no answer.
He clicked off. The first thing he thought was that he’d have to ditch the
phone right away. The number would show up in the call logs of Pancho’s and
Guthrie’s units.
He knew they were dead. He didn’t know how Rain found the boat, but somehow he
had. It was the same as in Hong Kong. He’d known Rain would be looking for a
way to counterattack, of course, but he thought with the boat as a shell game,
and with Dox as a hostage, Rain would be neutralized. Everything he knew about
Rain indicated that Dox was his only partner. But Rain couldn’t have tracked
him like this without help, and Hilger wondered for a moment where it might
have come from.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He breathed in and out, slowly and deeply, calming himself, focusing. If Rain
had learned about the boat, could he have learned about the Rotterdam op? Not
that Rain would care about the op itself; the man was a mercenary and nothing
more. But he might use its existence as a way to track Hilger again. Or he
might share his knowledge with someone else who might be inclined to
interfere. It didn’t seem likely, but neither had the calamity that had just
occurred here on Singapore.
For one bad second, he was gripped with self-doubt. Maybe he’d made a mistake
in treating Rain like an enemy. Maybe he should have just tried to recruit the
man, and Dox, too, even after what had happened in Hong Kong. He wondered if
he’d let his anger about that blown op color his judgment, the personal
interfere with the professional. After all, it wasn’t as though Rain had
affiliations, or stupid loyalties, or anything else that would have inhibited
him from working with Hilger. Maybe if he understood the importance of
Hilger’s work, he could have taken it up for himself. Nihilism was unnatural.
Maybe the right cause could have brought Rain around.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. Or maybe not.
Because almost nobody else really got it. Where were the realists in the
government, the men who would do what was necessary? Instead, we had a bunch
of chicken hawks peddling fantasy solutions to imaginary problems, who called
their solution the “Patriot Act” and sold it to an ignorant public eager to
believe the tough talkers were actually protecting them. It made Hilger want
to puke.
Well, he would take care of it, take care of all of it. He was so close now.
He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing again. Slowly, in and out.
All right. Assume the op is blown. Assume Rain knows about Boezeman. Hard to
imagine how, but still…what does Rain do with the information?
Hilger smiled. He knew Rain now. It had taken him a while and cost him a lot,

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but now he knew his enemy. Rain would use the information to track Hilger. It
was the predator in him, the relentlessness he’d seen in Rain’s eyes in Saigon
and in his actions everywhere else. Lots of other things were uncertain, but
this one Hilger knew he could take to the bank.
Two courses of action immediately presented themselves. One was an imperative;
the other, an opportunity.
The imperative: get to Amsterdam immediately. On a chartered jet if there was
nothing immediately available commercially. Meet Boezeman, access the device,
ensure proper placement, arm the detonator.
The opportunity: stay in Amsterdam for just a short while after, to double
back on the man, or men, who he was certain would be tracking him there.
Maybe he was miscalculating again. Maybe Rain, and Dox, too, if they were
together, would get the better of him. Certainly not impossible to imagine;
they were skilled, they were ruthless, and they were pissed.
But he would take that chance. As soon as he finished his business with
Boezeman, nothing would be able to stop the operation, and the operation was
always what mattered. More than the lives of any of his men. More, of course,
even than his own.
If it came to that.
As the taxi pulled into the hotel parking lot, Hilger’s mind felt as cool and
clear as a pristine mountain stream. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and
he knew exactly how to do it.
37
KANEZAKI HAD the Marine pilot take us to Hong Kong. Along the way, he used a
satellite phone to make various arrangements: a doctor for Dox, a 12:25 A.M.
first-class Cathay Pacific flight to Amsterdam for me.
“I can’t get you the kind of hardware you like in Amsterdam,” Kanezaki told
me, just after we’d landed. “My reach outside Asia isn’t great.”
I thought of the way he’d handled his pilot, the way he reminded me of Tatsu.
“It will be,” I said.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
I smiled. “Just a feeling. Anyway, I expect Boaz and Naftali will be carrying
enough hardware to make them clank when they walk.”
“Sounds like you’ve been to Amsterdam, am I right?”
“I know the general layout. But I haven’t been to Rotterdam at all.”
“Well, our man lives near Vondelpark in Amsterdam, if you know where that is.
A duplex at 15 Vossiusstraat. Commutes to work in Rotterdam.”
“I know Vondelpark.”
“I’ll upload the dossier to the bulletin board. It’ll be waiting for you when
you arrive.”
“Good.”
He hesitated, then said, “Tatsu would be proud of you.”
I nodded. Maybe it was manipulation; maybe it was heartfelt. Either way, I
suspected it was true. “He was a good influence,” I said. “On both of us.”
I shook his hand, then turned to Dox. The big sniper was lying on his back on
some folded blankets on the cabin floor, zonked from the morphine we’d been
administering. I squatted down and took his hand. “Enjoy your vacation, you
malingerer.”
He groaned. “You know there’s nowhere I’d rather be going right now than to
Amsterdam. You put him down good, all right?”
I squeezed his hand. “I will. I’ll see you soon.”
An ambulance was pulling up even as I got off the plane. I walked across the
tarmac and then through the airport, and by the time I reached the Cathay
Pacific counter, I was Taro Yamada again, and checked in for my flight without
a hitch.
I thought about calling Delilah. I was still unsettled by what she had said to
me. I didn’t know how I felt, or even how to respond, and felt stupid for it.
Just a few days earlier, I had decided the whole thing was ridiculous,
unsustainable. And then there was that night at the Bel-Air, and…shit, I just
didn’t know.

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But in the end, the thought of Delilah getting a report from Boaz and radio
silence from me was just too uncomfortable. I didn’t want to seem to
disrespect her. Because I did respect her, I was grateful to her, I…ah, Jesus
Christ. I found a pay phone and called her.
She picked up immediately. “Allo?”
“It’s me. We got him. He’s safe.”
“Oh, John.”
“Yeah, it’s all right. He’s going to be okay.”
“When are you coming back here?”
“Soon. There’s just one thing I have to finish first.” Under the
circumstances, she would know what that thing was.
There was a pause. “Are you sure it’s…necessary?”
“I have no choice. He’ll come after us if I don’t.”
“Let me help you, then.”
“No, it’s not a good idea.”
“I’m afraid.”
That threw me.
“What are you afraid of? You’re never afraid.”
“I’m afraid you’ve been pushing your luck. I want to be with you on this.”
I paused, trying to think of what to say, of a way to explain.
“I don’t want you involved,” I said. “I don’t want you to come into the place
I’m in, the place where I have to be. I think…you’re the only thing that can
pull me out.”
“John…”
“Okay? I have help. Talk to your people, you’ll see. Don’t come. I need you
after.”
I hung up then, afraid of what I might say next. I stood there for a long
time, my eyes closed, wondering about what I had just said to her and where
the words had come from. So much was happening, I couldn’t stay on top of it.
I wanted to find some dark, safe place where I could hide from everything and
try to figure it all out.
But I had to stay focused. I had to finish this. I had no choice.
I was practically comatose on the thirteen-hour flight to Amsterdam, arriving
at six-thirty in the morning local time. I doubted Boaz and Naftali could have
made it as fast, but I bought a prepaid card and tried Boaz from a pay phone
anyway. No answer. Yeah, they were probably in the air.
I used the Cathay Pacific arrivals lounge to shower and change. Kanezaki had
given me the second Dragon Skin vest, and I put it on now, half for
protection, half against the likely cold outside. I took the usual precautions
leaving the airport, then caught the train to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station.
I arrived to find a rainy, chilly, gloomy morning. Commuters shuffled past me
on the slick pavement, umbrellas dripping, chins tucked into scarves. I was
struck by the relative absence of conversation. Maybe it was the hour, maybe
the chill, but the mood of the area was quiet, even dour.
I bought a hat, scarf, gloves, an umbrella, and a map at a station shop. None
of the shops that were open sold jackets—or knives, which I wanted almost as
much. I’d have to wait until something opened later, when I could outfit
myself properly. In the meantime, I was going to be cold again.
I took the GVB tram to Leidseplein, near Vondelpark, where Boezeman lived. I
knew the square was a lively spot at night, but it wasn’t quite nine in the
morning now, and the dozens of bars and restaurants and coffee shops were
shuttered. I paused on a bridge over one of the antique canals that circled
back from the harbor like concentric strands on a spider’s web, looking down
briefly at the wet leaves floating on the murky water, a pair of geese gliding
by, improbably white and pure in contrast to the Stygian waters around them.
Cars passed me, their headlights weak against the wet winter morning gloom,
their tires spraying water from giant puddles onto the sidewalks. Bicyclists
pedaled stoically through the chill rain.
Vossiusstraat was only a five-minute walk from the tram stop. I found the
street, a narrow, one-way, cobblestoned thoroughfare, and walked down it. I

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was entering an area where Hilger might anticipate me, and my alertness
sharpened.
On the left side of the street was a long row of centuries-old, four-and
five-story brick-and-stone buildings, one joined to the next. None of the
doorways was set in deeply enough to offer someone a place to hide and wait.
On the right side was the mile-long green strip of Vondelpark, separated from
Vossiusstraat by a spiked, wrought-iron fence. I checked the park through the
bars of the fence, pausing in front of parked cars for cover as I moved, and
saw nothing out of place. A few people passed me, but their hands were visible
and their vibe not dangerous. In the rain, shrouded by umbrellas, they gave me
not even a glance.
I slowed and squatted with a parked car to my back as I passed number
fifteen—an old, heavy wooden door with decorative carvings and a stained-glass
window at its center. I looked at the exterior wall around the doorjamb, then
inside the stained glass at the vestibule within. No buzzers, mailboxes, or
other signs of individual units. Apparently Boezeman, or more probably the
Boezeman family, owned the building, and the entranceway was theirs alone.
Good to know.
The lock was new, and might have presented an impediment. But from my initial
assessment of the terrain, I thought I’d prefer to force him into the
vestibule when he arrived at or left the apartment, rather than try to gain
entry in advance and wait for him inside. Without more intelligence on his
circumstances and habits, waiting inside would have involved too many
uncertainties, primary among them the potential comings and goings of family
members. By contrast, the long, narrow street, with the park on one side,
created various solid opportunities for watching and waiting, and surprising
him at the entrance. It was too bad, really. If I could have been here two
hours earlier, maybe even only one, I might have had a chance to greet
Boezeman as he left his apartment on his way to work. I didn’t know what he
looked like, but how many people would be coming and going from this one
apartment? It would have been improvised, ad hoc, and involved some risk, but
it could have been done.
I walked the streets for two hours more, absorbing the vibe of the area,
focusing on Vossiusstraat. From Vondelpark I had a clear view of Boezeman’s
apartment. That was useful, but only up to a point. I’d be able to see him
coming and going, but wouldn’t be able to get to him in time to force him back
into the entranceway, where I could talk to him privately. Waiting on the
street itself, close to his building, was possible, but would look suspicious
if I had to stay for very long.
I wondered how security conscious he might be. Responsibility for facilities
security didn’t often translate into the kind of personal awareness that might
have protected him from someone like me. On the job, he would think one way;
off the job, thinking himself free of enemies, his habits might be lax. With
Boaz and Naftali to help, we might be able to set up a watcher at each end of
the narrow street. The third person would walk up and down the street, and we
would trade positions periodically to avoid being too conspicuous. If Boezeman
commuted by train, he would leave the street in the morning and arrive in the
evening on foot or on a bicycle. If he drove, it would be the same thing in a
car. Either way, with someone posted at each end of the street, we’d be able
to see him coming and get the third person in position near his apartment
before he arrived.
Assuming he didn’t carpool. Assuming he wasn’t married and didn’t leave with
his wife or arrive in the evening after picking up the kids from day care.
Assuming a thousand things, none of which we had time to properly screen for.
I bought a heavy wool jacket in a Leidseplein shop, then called Boaz from a
pay phone. This time he picked up.
“Are you here?” I asked.
“We just landed.”
“Good. Your phone is scrambled?”
“Yes, but I still want to be careful not to disturb the other passengers.”

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“I understand, there are people around you. All right, I’ve been having a look
around. I see some possibilities. When can you meet?”
“How about tonight, the hotel we talked about before, and, say, two hours
earlier?”
“Even earlier would be better. It would give us a window to meet Boezeman when
he comes home from work.”
“Maybe. I have a local friend who’s going to give us presents. I don’t think
we’ll want to show up empty-handed.”
He had a point. There were already so many unknowns. With guns, we’d at least
improve our chances of quietly getting Boezeman into his apartment, of
controlling him and anyone else we found there, and of establishing the
necessary fear that might induce the proper talkativeness. And there were
other tools we would probably need to track Hilger, if in fact he were in
town.
“I’ll call you again at fifteen hundred,” I said. “We’ll see how far along you
are then.”
I found an Internet coffee shop, or koffieshop, as the locals knew them, a
place called Get Down To It, on a side street off Leidseplein, and descended
the stairs to find a terminal and see what Kanezaki had for me. Halfway down,
the rich, heady smell of cannabis enveloped me, and for the second time in not
much more than a week I was back in Saigon, a young man this time, a boy,
really, on leave and smoking the Thai Stick an enterprising rear-echelon type
had smuggled in on a military flight from Bangkok. The iceman breathed it in,
exulting in an almost physical sense of recall, the memory of what it was to
be a teenager with skills and a license to use them, ten thousand miles from
home and making it up as we went along, knowing no one had ever been here
before us, like Neil Armstrong on the moon but better, juiced with hormones
and adrenaline, excitement and fear, an adolescent’s curious mind and a
predator’s deadly instincts. We knew we were special, anointed for our role,
baptized by our experience, our childhoods shed, as lost and useless to us now
as empty snakeskins. Everything else would come later—the horror, the cost of
it, the regret. But on leave in Saigon, in the back of a dark Dong Khoi bar,
high on Thai Stick and our status as gods, we had no idea what was being
mortgaged, or what we would have to pay for it.
The koffieshop was a quietly lit space with a low beamed ceiling and a
red-tiled floor, the walls darkened by years of accumulated smoke. There was a
pinball machine, pool tables, a dark wood bar and a handful of black stools in
front of it. In one corner were cushioned seats, a half-dozen young people
sitting on them, absorbed in their smoking and conversation; in the other,
three Internet terminals, all empty. Soft house music played in the
background. I used one of the terminals to access the Kanezaki bulletin board.
As promised, he had left me a full dossier on Boezeman, including photographs.
I wrote down what I needed to and memorized the rest. Then I purged the
browser and, without really thinking, took a seat at the bar. A sign was taped
to the counter:
SPECIAL OFFER: WHITE WIDOW AND SUPER PALM POWER HASH, 24 EUROS. DUTCH, 12
EUROS. THAI, 3 GRAMS, 12 EUROS.
Thai, huh. That shit was still around.
I looked at my watch. Close to five hours until I needed to call Boaz.
The bartender came over, a tall guy with thinning brown hair. “What can I get
you?”
Fuck it. “Thai,” I said. “And some papers.”
I rolled a single joint. Just a little, I thought. Just to see what it feels
like after so long away.
I took a very small hit and coughed anyway, and the bartender smiled. Not the
first time he’d seen a coughing patron, no doubt. He brought over a glass of
water and moved off again.
The iceman liked it, I could tell. I gave him another small one, which went
down easier, and then a third.
What the fuck are you doing? I thought. I looked at the joint with horror and

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stubbed it out. I was exhausted, I’d let my guard down, but shit, I was in the
middle of an op. Was I trying to get myself killed?
Amazing, though, the association of the smell, and now the taste, with Saigon.
I’d never smoked dope before or after. It was purely a Vietnam thing for me.
You’ll be okay, I told myself. It was only a little. What the hell…
I felt the outer edges of my perception beginning to fuzz over. It was nice,
actually. It reminded me of a time I hadn’t realized I’d missed. And it made
me aware of how strung out I’d been since receiving Hilger’s message in Paris.
Sex with Delilah, and all the booze that night…it was like I had been trying
to get outside myself, or anesthetize something within.
Sometimes you need the anesthesia. Because what you learn about yourself when
fear finally overtakes you isn’t pretty. You understand that the person you
thought of as yourself, your immutable, indivisible self, is just an overlay,
fragile and frail. Fear strips away the façade. And having to see what lies
beneath, and accept it, makes you different from everyone who hasn’t been
similarly forged. You’ve been aged; they remain neophytes. You have brutal
clarity; they, comforting illusions. You’ve looked into the abyss, and can
still feel it looking back; they don’t even know such a place exists. And for
all of it, you hate them.
Why had I insisted on Saigon with Hilger? There were other places we could
have gone, places that offered the same operational advantages. But the iceman
wanted Vietnam. He wanted to take me back, back to the place he was born,
where he thrived, the place that was purely him. Why?
Because you need me.
I started. The voice was whispered, intense, familiar.
I looked around. No one had spoken. The bartender was at the other end of the
bar, talking to one of the girls at the corner tables. The house music seemed
far away.
What are you talking about? I thought. I know I need you.
No. You’ve been trying to kill me.
I’ve been trying to accommodate you.
Bullshit. You’re ignoring me. Smothering me. Letting me run loose at night in
Paris like I’m a fucking dog that needs to be walked so it won’t crap the
house. And then when you need me for Dox, you second-guess me, fight me,
tolerate me like I’m the hired help and you can’t wait until I’m finished with
the chores so you can send me off again. That shit is over. Get the fuck out
of my way.
No. You don’t own me.
The hell I don’t. You’d be dead now if it weren’t for me. You would have died
the first night you pissed your pants in a firefight. Your life is mine. I
don’t own you? I fucking am you.
“You okay?”
I jumped to the side and my right hand went to clear a blade clipped to my
pocket, a blade that wasn’t there. Before I knew it, I had the stool in my
hands, cocked back like a baseball bat.
It had been the bartender talking to me. He took a step back and raised his
hands, his eyes wide.
“Hey, man,” he said. “It’s cool. It’s cool.”
Fear had blown away the marijuana trance like an arctic wind. I looked around
and realized where I was. And what I was doing.
I put the stool down. Everyone was looking at me.
The bartender slowly lowered his hands. “You were pretty zoned out there, man.
That Thai weed can be strong.”
“Yeah, it can be,” I said, nodding. “I don’t think I’ll be having any more of
it.”
I walked in the wet, cold air until I found a cheap hotel, where I slept for
several hours. When I woke, I still felt exhausted, the way you do from a
post-combat parasympathetic backlash, but at least my head was clear again.
All the flying, the stalking, the near catastrophes. Then getting Dox out,
knowing he was all right. And now that thing in the coffeehouse…it was like

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facing off with your worst enemy, then getting pulled apart with everybody
still armed, nothing really resolved.
I stopped for some food and coffee at a place called Café Bouwman, on
Utrechtsestraat along the Prinsengracht canal. It was good—a neighborhood kind
of place, low-key, unpretentious, with old wooden tables and leather seats,
and a bartender who knew her customers. When I was done, I called Boaz from a
pay phone.
“How are we doing?” I said.
“We finished up ahead of schedule. We were waiting for your call.”
“Good. How soon can you be in the place we talked about?”
“We’re here now. But we have a car, we can meet you anywhere.”
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have accepted the proposal. But I wasn’t worried about
Boaz right now. And the Krasnapolsky was less than a fifteen-minute walk from
where I was. It would save time to go straight there.
“I’ll meet you in front in fifteen minutes,” I said.

BOAZ AND NAFTALI were waiting out front as promised. Boaz had lost the
Hawaiian shirt and was wearing a bulky down jacket and jeans. He looked
thoroughly unremarkable, nondescript, unmemorable. Naftali had on a nylon
windbreaker and a backpack. But for a certain hard look in his eyes that not
everyone would know what to make of, Gil’s brother looked like a young
European tourist on a budget. We walked down the street to a pizza place. Boaz
and Naftali ordered a few slices, and we sat in back to talk.
“Do you celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah?” Boaz asked.
“Neither.”
“Well, you’ll like our presents regardless. USP tacticals and suppressors, and
some sharp pointy things, too. I love the holidays.”
I briefed them on the layout around Boezeman’s building, then we discussed how
to proceed. Boaz agreed that intercepting Boezeman as he came home tonight, or
failing that as he left in the morning, was our best bet. But as we started
talking about Hilger, I began to feel uneasy. We weren’t taking his possible
presence adequately into account.
“If this whole thing is real,” I said, “and he really does have a radiological
device that he needs to arm, he could be here already. He might already have
contacted Boezeman. Hell, he might already have armed the bomb for all we
know.”
“All right,” Boaz said. “Let’s assume he did. What does he do next?”
“He gets the hell out of Dodge. The op is done. Maybe the device is on a
timer; maybe it’s mobile-phone-activated. Either way, he’d want to leave town
before detonation, otherwise there’s too much chance of getting caught up in a
security sweep. So he catches the train to Brussels, straight from Rotterdam.”
“No,” Naftali said.
Boaz and I both looked at him. Boaz said, “I knew you could talk.”
“He doesn’t leave right away,” Naftali said, ignoring the commentary. “He’s
lost all his cutouts and he’s dealing with Boezeman directly now. Boezeman can
connect the operation to him. First, he kills Boezeman. Then he gets the hell
out of Dodge.”
We were all quiet for a moment. Naftali had just made a damn good point.
“All right,” I said. “Where does he get to Boezeman?”
Naftali shrugged. “Where are we talking about getting to him?”
Boaz nodded. “You’re right. And I don’t like the idea of waiting for Boezeman
in the same place and at the same time as Hilger. A lot of things could go
wrong.”
“Why don’t we call him?” I said. “Boezeman. Flush him out. If he knows
anything, we’ll be able to tell.”
“It’s risky,” Boaz said. “It would be warning him.”
I shrugged. “He’s still got to come home tonight. If the call doesn’t get the
results we want, we can always use the apartment as plan B.”
I took out the notes I had made from the information on the Kanezaki bulletin
board. “Here’s his mobile,” I said. “Let’s see what happens if our friend

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Boezeman gets an unexpected phone call.”
Boaz handed me a mobile. “Sterile,” he said.
I input the number. Two rings, then a deep voice: “Hoi.”
“Hello, Mister Boezeman?”
“Yes, speaking.”
I thought of the names Kanezaki had mentioned on the bulletin board. “I’m a
friend of our mutual acquaintances, James Hillman and William Detts.”
I paused. Boezeman said, “Yes?”
Not an “I’m sorry?” or a “Who?” Something about the word choice, and his tone,
told me I’d hit pay dirt.
I waited longer, seeing what the pressure of silence might produce.
“Uh, is this about the rental property?” he said.
Goddamn, it was working. That was a bona fide if ever I’d heard one.
“I’m supposed to give you a signal in return, right?” I said.
“Who…who is this?”
“I’ll explain who I am, Mister Boezeman. Right now, I’m either your best
friend or your worst enemy. I’ve been investigating James Hillman for more
than two years. I know what he’s doing in Rotterdam. I know how he’s using you
to do it. Cooperate with me, right now, or the next call you get will be from
the national police and security services.”
There was a long pause. I could hear his breathing. It was fast.
“I…what do you want?” he said.
“To meet you. Right now. To tell you what Hillman has really been up to and
for you to brief me. In return for that, I won’t make that phone call to the
police. But one thing first. It’s very important. It’s for your safety. Did
you meet with Hillman earlier today?”
“I…I…why?”
He met him. It was all right there in his voice.
“You’re not safe,” I said. “You can’t go home tonight. Not until we’ve taken
care of this.”
“How…I don’t even know who you are.”
“Are you at work now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll have an hour to think about all this, and you’ll see that
trusting me is your only option. I’m on my way to Rotterdam now. I’ll call
when I arrive. We can meet anywhere you like. You’ll want to choose somewhere
public.” I clicked off.
Boaz frowned. “You’re going to let him choose the place?”
“Of course not. I just want to get him moving. Once he takes some action,
he’ll take more. Now let’s go. I’ll brief you on the way.”
Their car was parked near the hotel, a Mercedes C Class with a navigation
system. Naftali drove. Boaz input Boezeman’s work address. We were there in
less than an hour—not the city of Rotterdam, which I’d heard was pretty, nor
even the port itself, but instead the refinery complex, a sprawling network of
waterways plied by freighters and garbage scows; thousands of miles of pipes
twisting in all directions, carrying who knows what to God knows where; squat
oil tanks and rotating power turbines and towers belching smoke into a sky the
color of lead.
I called Boezeman again. He answered immediately.
“I’m here,” I said. “Near your office at the refinery.” I gave him the address
of a gas station we had just passed, and he said he was coming.
“Told you,” I said to Boaz, and he smiled.
We drove a little ways off and parked on a rise with a view of the gas station
parking lot. Like his apartment, Boezeman himself was a Hilger nexus, and we
had to be careful.
Five minutes later, a blue Fiat pulled into the corner of the gas station lot,
eschewing the pumps. We waited a minute, watching through the binoculars, and
saw no cars following.
Naftali drove us in. Boaz and I had the USPs out and ready. As we pulled into
the gas station, we saw Boezeman, sitting alone in the car.

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I rolled down my window. “Let me see your hands, Mister Boezeman,” I said. He
complied, and we crept closer. I could see the backseat now. It was empty.
Okay.
“Watch my back,” I said to Boaz. Never a phrase that made me particularly
comfortable. But if it was good enough for Dox with Boaz, it would have to be
good enough for me.
“We’ve got you,” Boaz said, and I stepped out of the car. Boezeman got out,
too.
We stood there in the rain, looking at each other, Boezeman’s expression
plainly afraid. “What kind of trouble am I in?” he said to me, and I thought,
Thank God this guy’s just a civilian and not a hard case.
“I’m going to give you some information,” I said, “and then you’re going to
give me information in return. Fair enough?”
Boezeman nodded, looking nervously at Boaz and Naftali.
“The man you know as James Hillman also goes by Jim Hilger. He’s working for
radical Islamic interests. He’s smuggled a radiological device into Rotterdam.
A dirty bomb.”
The color fled Boezeman’s face. “Oh, my God.”
“I can tell by your reaction that you didn’t know what you were mixed up in,”
I said. I expected that in his distressed state, he would pick up the
possibility of exculpation and run with it.
He did. “I never knew. Never. They never told me, but I thought…”
“Drugs?” I offered.
“Yes, only drugs. Oh, my God.” His face had gone from white to green. It
looked like he might puke.
“Mister Boezeman. This is important. You met with Hilger today, didn’t you?”
He nodded. I waved to Boaz and he got out of the car.
“Did you give him access to the refinery facilities?” I said.
“He…had to retrieve something from a container. I had the container brought
from the port and stored on the refinery grounds.”
“Why?”
“I have more access at the refinery. And Hillman—Hilger—he told me to do it
that way.”
“Did you ever take a look at what’s inside in the container?”
“I tried once. There were cases, but both were locked.”
“All right. Did you let Hilger into the container?”
His frozen expression was all the answer we needed.
Boaz said, “The bomb is armed.”
Boezeman turned away, doubled over, and vomited.
I looked at Boaz. “Can you disarm it?”
He shrugged. “I can disarm anything. With proper tools. And enough time. And
with access, of course.”
“Well, you’re only going to get one out of three,” I said. “If we’re lucky.” I
turned to Boezeman. “Listen,” I said. “You have to pull yourself together. We
can still rectify this if we hurry. But we need more information. Where is
Hilger now?”
“I…I don’t know.”
I wasn’t asking the questions right. Boezeman was so agitated, he was getting
the mental equivalent of tunnel vision. He was responding too narrowly, I
could feel it.
“But did he give you any indication?” I said. “Did he say he was leaving town,
or that he would meet you later, anything like that?”
“He has to come back tomorrow,” Boezeman said. “He told me…he couldn’t move
everything all at once. He had a big duffel bag, and it was full when he
left.”
“Probably with newspaper,” I said. “They shipped it over with the bomb so you
would think he was carrying something important out of the container. But he
told you he had to come back?”
“Yes, to pick up the rest.”
“There is no rest. The only reason he hasn’t detonated the bomb yet is because

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he needs to kill you first. Where did you last see him? Someplace public?”
“Yes, it was…outside the gate. There were guards near. And he tried to…he
wanted…”
“What?”
“He wanted me to come to the station with him. But I couldn’t.”
“He was looking for someplace private enough to kill you. That’s all.”
“But if he wants to kill me, and he knows I’m here, why doesn’t he just…”
“It’s not that kind of bomb,” Boaz said. “The conventional explosion is small.
It might not kill anybody. It’s the radiation that does all the damage, mostly
by causing panic.”
Boezeman moaned softly, but said nothing.
I put myself in Hilger’s shoes for a moment. The bomb is armed; all that’s
left is to silence Boezeman. How do I get to him? Time and place…
“Mister Boezeman. Did Hilger ask you any questions about what time you leave
work, what time you get home, how you commute, that sort of thing?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “Yes. All those things. I
thought…”
“That he was just making conversation, learning about life in the Netherlands,
yes. Tell me exactly what you told him. Be specific.”
“I told him…I’m usually home by six o’clock. That I commute by car.”
That was all I needed. With a nod of my head toward Boaz, I said, “Can you get
this man into the container?”
“Not again, I don’t…”
“This man is a bomb-disposal expert. If he can disarm the bomb, you walk away
from this without anyone ever even knowing. You can even keep whatever Hilger
paid you. If the bomb goes off, you burn in hell.”
Boezeman stood there, struggling not to hyperventilate. “I…all right, I can
take him.”
Boaz looked at me. “Go. Take the car.”
“You…”
“You take care of Hilger. I’ll take care of the bomb.”
Naftali got out of the Mercedes. The keys were in and the engine was still
running. I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. With luck, I could
intercept Hilger. With luck, Boaz wasn’t about to die in a radiological
explosion.
With luck.
38
RUSH-HOUR TRAFFIC wasn’t kind to me, and I didn’t make it back to Leidseplein
until six-thirty. I hoped Hilger, who knew he would get another try tomorrow,
hadn’t given up for the night. But I had a feeling he’d stick it out for a
while longer. Silencing Boezeman was important, and he’d want to do it as soon
as possible so he could complete the op.
The real question wasn’t whether, but where. I put myself in his shoes again.
No need for anything to look natural. Just a bullet in the back of the head,
or a knife in the liver, ideally while he’s going in his own front door.
But you couldn’t wait right by his front door. There were too many apartments,
too many passersby. It would be too suspicious. The end of the street? Similar
problem. You might miss the target entirely.
Vondelpark would be ideal. It was big, dark, and had lots of bushes and trees
for concealment. You could lurk there for hours, with a view of Boezeman’s
apartment. If you had a sniper rifle, all you’d need would be line of sight.
With a pistol, maybe you could drop the target from just on the other side of
the Vondelpark fence. With a knife, the trick would be getting from the park
to Boezeman’s door before he got inside. At a run, it would take ninety
seconds, considerably longer than it takes a man to let himself in with a key.
Unless, of course, someone’s broken off something inside the lock.
That was it. That’s how I would do it. Even with a rifle, you’d want to slow
the target down, give yourself extra time for the shot.
I parked the car and set off, pulling my wool hat down low over my ears and
turning up the coat collar as I walked.

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I started walking down Overtoom street, thinking I would enter the park from
Van Baerlestraat, the northwest side of the eastern quadrant of the park, and
a good distance from Boezeman’s apartment. That would maximize my chances of
seeing Hilger while he was focused on spotting Boezeman, before he had a
chance to see me.
It made sense, but suddenly it felt wrong. The iceman didn’t like it, and he
was trying to tell me why.
And then I knew. I’d considered the possibility that Hilger would be here. Why
couldn’t he, with all his experience, have come to similar, mirror-image
conclusions? Sure, by all means, jam Boezeman’s lock. But then monitor the
door some other way, from somewhere else in the park—from where he could
ambush me.
I thought for a moment. What about another man? I doubted he had any left. Dox
had said four on that first phone call. After New York and Singapore, that
left Hilger.
A camera, then? A magnetic mount, or even duct tape, on the iron fence would
work. And then he could wait anywhere. He could set up at Van Baerlestraat,
the direction from which he knew I would hunt him. Lie flat on the ground, the
muzzle of the gun up, waiting and watching.
I changed direction and entered the park from Stadhouderskade, the eastern
end. As soon as I was inside the gate, I moved off the path and into a line of
trees. I dropped into a squat, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark.
There were a few people about, all with umbrellas, all hurrying through the
rain, doubtless on their way home from work. I saw no one loitering anywhere.
I moved slowly along the trees at the northeastern edge of the park, knees and
elbows the whole way, my face an inch from the sodden ground. It felt like
coming home. I paused frequently to check my surroundings. A few bicyclists
went by on the path to my left, but that was all.
A hundred yards in, I stopped. Straight ahead of me was a thick cluster of
trees. It was where I would have waited for me. I crept closer. There, at the
base of the thickest of them. Prone on the ground. Hilger.
I waited and watched him. He was on the eastern side of the tree, taking cover
and concealment from anyone approaching from the west. It was as I’d thought:
he’d anticipated me. Only I, and the iceman, had played one step further
ahead.
It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked like he was holding a
pistol in his right hand. Something glowed periodically on his left. A small
monitor, maybe a mobile phone. I’d been right about the camera setup, too,
which meant he had no one with him.
Slowly, painstakingly, I circled behind him, and then gradually moved in. The
rain muffled sound, but I didn’t need it. If there was one thing my body had
learned and would never forget, it was how to move silently through the mud.
Hilger had said his conflict had been in the desert. Too bad for him.
Twelve yards. Ten. It was easy to get overeager at the moment of the kill, and
I forced myself to stay slow and steady.
“Don’t move,” I heard from behind me, in a commanding tone.
It was Hilger’s voice. I froze and didn’t try to turn. The person on the
ground in front of me remained still.
“Very slowly, place the gun on the ground, far from your body. Then get your
hands up high, fingers spread.”
I did as he had asked, then snuck a glance back. I couldn’t see much more than
a silhouette holding a pistol, ten feet away. The muzzle was abnormally long,
and I realized it was a suppressor. With the gun on me, it was too far to rush
him. If he shot center mass, the Dragon Skin might carry the day. But if he
aimed low or high, I’d be done.
“Who’s the guy on the ground?” I asked, wanting to engage him, see if I could
create an opening.
“I have no idea.”
“You just shot someone to use as a decoy?”
I heard him laugh. “It worked, didn’t it?”

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I couldn’t deny it.
“Are you going to give me a hard time about it?” I heard him say. “How many
people did you kill this week?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He laughed again, and I felt a slow-burning rage ignite deep within me. He
hadn’t moved to pat me down, probably because he was wary of getting too close
after our run-in in Saigon. I had the knife Boaz gave me clipped to my front
pocket. If I rushed him, I could probably open him up even as he was shooting
me. I might die, but I’d take him with me to hell.
Do it. Do it now.
It was the iceman talking.
No. There’s a better way.
A distraction. That’s what I needed. Something to buy myself the extra second.
“Tell me where Dox is,” I heard him say, and I realized that was my opening.
He didn’t know how messed up the big sniper was. He thought he was here.
“He’s with Boezeman,” I said. “Boezeman let him into the container. He
disarmed the bomb.”
There was a second of silence while his mind grappled with his new
understanding of just how much I knew. Boezeman, container, bomb, disarmed…it
was a lot to process. It required thought, and made it hard to focus.
“You’re lying,” he said.
This time I was the one to laugh. “You’re right. You want to know where he is?
Dox. Take him out.”
Hilger had spent enough time in the military, and was sufficiently acquainted
with Dox’s deadly skills, for the words take him out to have an almost
Pavlovian effect. Klaxons were going off in his mind now: Rain must be wearing
commo gear, Dox is close by with a scoped rifle, where’s the line of sight,
get off the X—
I spun and rushed him. I was five feet away when the first slug hit my chest.
I felt like I’d run into a tree, and the air was driven out of my lungs. He
got off two more, both to my torso, and then I had both hands wrapped around
the gun. I twisted hard to the left, forcing the muzzle out to his right. He
rotated his body to keep his wrist from breaking, and two more shots went off
to the side. We struggled with the gun.
I couldn’t draw breath. It felt like I’d been kicked by a horse, by three
horses. Hilger snapped a knee into my groin and pain rocketed through my
abdomen. I got a hand around the long suppressor and shoved back and over,
toward Hilger’s right shoulder. He couldn’t get out of the way, and he
couldn’t let go. His wrist snapped. He howled and I tore the gun away from
him.
I took a step back, and with my last strength blasted a desperate side kick
into his knee. He yelled again and collapsed. I fell to my knees a few feet
away, fumbling with the pistol, trying to breathe, breathe…
I bobbled the gun and dropped it in the mud. Hilger, his face a rictus of
pain, was struggling with his belt buckle with his left hand. I remembered
Saigon, and thought, belt knife.
Of course, no backup pistol. That’s what I’d seen in the dead guy’s hand.
Breathe, breathe…
I groped for the gun. I couldn’t find it. The outer edges of my vision were
going dark.
Hilger twisted the buckle, and suddenly there was a blade in his hand.
I gritted my teeth, and with all my strength tried to suck air into my lungs.
No go. Tiny red dots danced before my eyes. My phony command to Dox had
unbalanced Hilger enough to deny him the time and the focus to shoot for my
head or pelvic girdle, but the rounds had reverberated through the Dragon Skin
to hammer my diaphragm into spasm. The knee to my groin had made it worse. My
brain wasn’t getting oxygen, and it was beginning to shut down.
Hilger slid toward me, the knife in his left hand, his left forearm digging
into the mud, pulling himself forward like an injured reptile.
I rubbed frantically at my diaphragm. A tiny whistle of air made its way into

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my lungs.
Hilger slashed with the knife. I fell away from him to my back, getting my
feet between us, still rubbing, trying to coax my diaphragm out of spasm.
Another snatch of air stole down my throat, like a prisoner dashing across a
mine field.
Another slash. The blade hit my boot. I drew a tiny, hitching breath. Hilger
screamed and slashed again. Again he hit a boot.
I put my hands down to shove away from him, and my right fingers touched cold
metal. The gun. I grabbed it and kicked away to create a precious extra two
feet, then got it out in front of me with my right hand, my left still
massaging my abdomen. I drew an inch of breath. Then another. The red dots
disappeared, and the darkness retreated.
Hilger saw the gun, saw that he couldn’t reach me. His body sagged and he
dropped the knife in the mud.
We sat there like that, neither of us able to move. After a few moments,
Hilger laughed and said, “I guess you are bulletproof, after all. Body armor,
right?”
I didn’t answer. I was still working on getting my breath back.
We sat there like that for almost a minute, neither of us able to move. When I
could finally speak, I sighted down the muzzle and said, “Tell me how to
disarm it.”
He smiled. “Then you haven’t yet. You were lying.”
“I don’t know. Somebody’s been working on it. Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”
He laughed.
I thought about calling Boaz. But without Hilger’s cooperation, there was
nothing I could do to help him. And a phone call could distract him at a
delicate moment. I would have to wait.
“Who are you working for?” I asked. “AQ? Hamas? Hezbollah?”
He laughed again.
“What?” I said.
“I work for my country.”
“I don’t get it.”
He sighed. “Someone has to deny America’s enemies their funding, Rain. How can
the country prevail against radical Islam while simultaneously underwriting
it?”
“What does this have to do with Rotterdam?”
“It has everything to do with Rotterdam. America’s oil addiction is a sickness
that’s killing the patient. Christ, Americans would rather send soldiers to
war than carpool to work. And Congress is worse. The idiots actually proposed
to offer taxpayers a hundred-dollar rebate to buy more gasoline—they want to
give the addicts more money for a fix, more money to send to the mullahs and
the al Saud, our enemies.”
“So Rotterdam is an inoculation.”
“Yes. That’s well put. You increase the price of oil enough to lower demand
and create market incentives for alternatives, but not so much that the
patient goes into the shock of economic depression. It’s a shame the patient
doesn’t have the sense or the will to inoculate himself through a carbon tax,
but denial is the nature of addiction, and doesn’t change the fact that the
patient badly needs help.”
“What about British Petroleum, then? Prudhoe Bay?”
He looked at me. “How do you know about that?”
“What difference does it make?”
There was a pause, and I thought he would refuse. But I’d told him I might let
him live. No matter how tough you are, in extremis, it doesn’t take much for a
drop of hope to blossom into a full-blown mirage of salvation.
“Prudhoe Bay was a test of the new treatment,” he said. “On the one hand, it
was a failure because it didn’t have the desired effect. But it was
successful, too, because it demonstrated that for the patient to get well a
higher dose was needed. There were other possibilities, including Ras Tanura
in Saudi Arabia. But…”

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“You had an unwitting access agent in Rotterdam. Boezeman.”
“That’s right. And I wanted to keep casualties to a minimum. The layout at
Rotterdam is good for that.”
“So with Rotterdam inoperable…”
“Right. The price of oil would spike, demand would slacken, and I would
single-handedly have hastened the advent of a post-oil, post-OPEC world
economy. You get it now? Do you understand what’s at stake? We live in
perilous times. We’re battling a new kind of enemy. An enemy that can’t be
deterred. What do we do to fight him? Become like him?”
“Haven’t you?”
“I didn’t say ‘me.’ I said ‘we.’ Someone has to do what needs to be done,
Rain. Someone has to live in the shadows so others can enjoy the light.
Someone has to sin so others can enjoy innocence. Now, if you don’t understand
my reasons, go ahead. Do the only thing you’re good for. You beat me. You won.
Again.”
I didn’t say anything. The only thing you’re good for. It was stupid, but the
words cut into me.
“But grant me a last request,” he said. “Let me call my sister. She’s the only
one I have to say goodbye to. Or is a small mercy against your code of
killing?”
I watched him, the front sight of the pistol even with his forehead. I thought
about how easy it is to retract a fingertip, how easy to take a life.
It had always been easy for me. What others could accomplish only with the
greatest encouragement, with fear and regret and swallowed revulsion, I could
just…do. And I’d kept on doing it. There would always be a reason, it seemed.
And if there weren’t, maybe I would invent one.
“My mobile phone is over there,” he said, inclining his head toward the dead
guy by the tree. “My knee is broken, I can’t get to it. Would you lend me
yours? Please?”
What difference did it make? A small mercy, like he said. I pulled my mobile
out and tossed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said. He grimaced and flipped it open with his good hand.
If I was going to stop, I had to find a way to stop, a time and place to stop.
I would have to make a decision to stop. The decision would carry risks, it
was true. But so, always, would the alternative.
Maybe this was what Delilah had been talking about, when she told me about
choices, and how I would make the right one.
Hilger was supporting himself on his left elbow, inputting his sister’s number
with his left thumb. It embarrassed me to have to hear whatever he might say
to her.
Yes, that was it. I’d been telling myself for so long I had no choice, that
maybe my choice reflex had atrophied. But I could reawaken it. I could let him
live. By walking away, I would prove that Dox and I were no threat to him.
He’d have no incentive to come after us after that.
It made sense. I could do this. It was up to me. My choice. Everything would
be possible. A thousand new directions. I thought about how I would tell
Delilah, how she had been right, and how much her confidence had meant to me,
how much it had helped me. I would tell her…
The phone! Not his sister, he’s detonating the bomb!
Without any other thought, I brought the gun up and shot him in the face.
Again. Three times. He jerked and twitched and dropped the phone.
I sat there dumbly for a long moment in the sudden silence, the rain beating a
steady drumbeat on my arms and shoulders. A tendril of smoke curled coyly from
the muzzle of the gun.
I stood and picked up the mobile. I checked the screen. An access code, then
1, for America, 212, for New York…and six more digits. Christ, he’d been one
digit away.
But was it the bomb? Or did he really have…
It didn’t matter. For all I knew, Boaz was elbow deep in the device right now.
If Hilger had detonated it, Boaz would have died. Even if I was wrong, I had

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no choice.
The rain beat harder. And through the echo of that sodden drumbeat, I thought
I heard a whispered voice, at once familiar and distant.
No choice.
I stood there in the cold and dark and rain. I’d known, at some level, of the
possible danger if he made a call. But I’d let him make it anyway. Because
once he had the phone in his hands, I had…
No choice.
My mobile buzzed. I looked and saw that it was Boaz.
I picked up. “You okay?” I asked.
“Did you hear a boom?”
“No, I didn’t. But I wasn’t listening closely.”
He laughed. “I have a simple rule. If there’s no boom, it’s good news.”
“You disarmed it.”
“Disarmed and disabled. We’ll need experts to handle the radioactive material
and make sure it’s disposed of properly, but that’s someone else’s concern.”
I started walking toward the car. Jesus, I didn’t know I had so many places
that could hurt. “Whose?” I asked.
“Let’s just say Mister Boezeman is very eager for no one ever to learn of this
incident. And my organization is very eager to own a Rotterdam port official.
It’s going to be a beautiful friendship.”
“You’re going to bring the organization in on this?”
“Of course. With results like these, a little—what do you call it,
moonlighting?—is easily forgiven. But enough about me. I’m so relieved not to
be blown into a million pieces that I’m forgetting to ask you about Hilger.”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“How do you think? Bullets.”
“And you’re okay? You’re not hurt, you’re out of danger?”
“I’m okay.”
“Fantastic! Naftali will be so pleased he might talk again. He was hoping to
do it himself, but he’s a big boy, he understands that what matters is, it’s
done.”
“Where are you?”
“On the train, on the way back to Amsterdam. Let’s have a beer. Debrief,
decompress.”
“I’ve…got a lot to think about.”
“Bullshit. No one should be alone after something like this. Besides, you have
our car and all our shiny toys. You have to give them back or we’ll get in
trouble.”
I tried to smile, but I felt sick. “I’ll meet you at the station and give you
the keys. But I can’t stay long.”

I PARKED NEAR Centraal Station, took my bag from the trunk, and locked the
car. As I walked along one of the canals, I dropped Hilger’s gun over the
side. I had left the USP in Vondelpark. I didn’t have time to search for it in
the mud, but it was okay. I hadn’t even fired it, and if Boaz was using it, it
must have been sterile.
I met them inside the station, as they came down the stairs from the Rotterdam
train. Naftali shook my hand. “I owe you, Mister Rain,” he said.
“No, you don’t. You had my back. That’s good enough.”
He shook his head. “I know my brother was sent to kill you. I’m glad now he
didn’t succeed.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, and Naftali actually smiled.
“I told you he would be excited,” Boaz said.
I laughed weakly, then grimaced. My chest felt like I’d stopped a truck with
it.
“Where will you go now?” Boaz asked. “To Delilah?”
I couldn’t have fooled him even if I’d been inclined. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t call her, you know. After Singapore. It was up to you.”

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“Well, do you want me to go see her?” I said, handing him the car keys. “Or do
you want to stand here talking?”
He laughed. I explained about the USP and told them where they could find the
car, then went to the ticket booth to see about a train to Paris.
There was a nine o’clock that arrived at Paris Nord at one in the morning. I
bought a ticket and headed to the platform. I called Kanezaki just before
boarding the train.
“How is he?” I asked.
“He’s going to be okay. A lot of bruises, some fractured ribs, and a hell of a
sunburn.”
Yeah, my skin was itching, too. I’d been so busy I hadn’t noticed until now.
“Good.”
“How about you?” he asked. “Did…”
“You were right about everything. And everything we came here to do, we did,
including rendering our friend defunct. I’ll post the details. But you can
probably reach the Israelis on their mobiles right now.”
“I may do that.”
“You did well, Tom.”
“And you did good.”
“Well, no good deed goes unpunished. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“I hope so.”
I took my seat on the train and five minutes later, we pulled out of the
station. I was wet and shivering from crawling through Vondelpark, and my
chest ached. I just wanted to get somewhere warm and dry, somewhere I could
close my eyes.
I leaned my head against the window. As we left the lights of the city behind
and the world outside grew darker, my reflection appeared in the glass.
For so long, I’d been asking myself whether I had a choice, and always
answering no. But maybe the real question was why I never had a choice. Why I
always put myself in a position where I had no alternative but killing.
What was that saying of Henry Ford’s? “You can have any color you like, as
long as it’s black.”
I thought I heard the iceman: You can have any choice you want, as long as
it’s mine.
Maybe. But I’d made at least one right choice, in New York when I’d walked
away from Midori’s boyfriend. And maybe I was making another right now, in
going to Delilah.
I thought about those three small words she had uttered, the ones I didn’t
know how to respond to. I’d think of something, maybe even what she had called
“the traditional response,” although the thought of it scared me. I had told
her I needed her to guide me back, and staring at that ghostly image in the
glass, I knew I did need her, that without her I would just give up and
surrender to the iceman. It would be so easy. I was used to it. A part of me
even wanted it.
But there was something I wanted more. And with Delilah…
That was it. With Delilah.
The iceman was a loner. Why was I fighting him alone? That was what he wanted,
the nature of the fight was itself his victory. But I had allies, Delilah
foremost among them. Maybe if I could just be a little less stupid about
accepting what they wanted to give me, I could stack the odds in my favor.
I didn’t need to kill the iceman. I didn’t even need to fight him. I just
needed to make more of myself, so that he would be less of me.
I didn’t know how, exactly, and I was too tired to figure it out now. But I
wouldn’t have to figure it out on my own. That was the point.
I closed my eyes. The reflection was still there, of course. I just couldn’t
see it. And for the moment, that was enough.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Bali, Paris, Saigon, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Bay Area, New York, Singapore,
Rotterdam, and Amsterdam locales that appear in this book are described, as
always, as I have found them. The nonlethal millimeter wave “area denial

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system” technology Rain and Boaz use in Singapore is real, but I don’t know if
there are yet versions as portable, or as able to penetrate walls, as the one
in this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, I’ve written a book that has been made much better through the
generous contributions of many friends. My thanks to:
My agents, Nat Sobel and Judith Weber of Sobel Weber Associates, and my
editor, Dan Conaway of Putnam, for helping me keep the stories fresh and the
prose sharp.
Michael Barson (master of Yubiwaza), Carroll Beauvais, Katie Grinch, Summer
Smith, Caroline Sun, and Matthew Venzon of Putnam, for doing such an amazing
job of getting out the word on the books. Go, Barsonians!
Massad Ayoob of the Lethal Force Institute, for sharing his awe-inspiring
knowledge of and experience with firearms tools and tactics, for the great
instruction at the LFI I and II (see you at III, Mas), and for helpful
comments on the manuscript.
Tony Blauer, for teaching Rain and Dox some of the pattern interrupt / verbal
distraction techniques they use several times in this book to gain a tactical
advantage.
Matt Furey, for again providing some of the Combat Conditioning bodyweight
exercises Rain uses to stay in top shape (and that his author uses, too).
Peyton Quinn of Rocky Mountain Combat Applications Training and author of A
Bouncer’s Guide to Barroom Brawling and Real Fighting, for his concept of the
previolence “interview,” in this case the fast interview Rain receives in
chapter 3.
Ernie Tibaldi, a thirty-one-year veteran agent of the FBI and now a top
security consultant, for continuing to generously share his encyclopedic
knowledge of law enforcement and personal safety issues, for turning Rain on
to Katz’s Deli in New York, and for helpful comments on the manuscript.
Jonathan Shay, for Achilles in Vietnam: Combat Trauma and the Undoing of
Character, from which I derived a greater understanding of Rain’s own Vietnam
experiences, related in chapter 8, and their long-term effects.
When I visited Saigon to research this book, it was my first time. Rain, of
course, had been there long before, and I needed to see the city through his
eyes. The website When from Our Exile: Ivan in Vi?t Nam
(www.pauahtun.org/Exile/Default.htm) was an enormous help.
Sensei Koichiro Fukasawa of Wasabi Communications, for continuing to guide
Rain in Japan, for lifelong friendship, and for helpful comments on the
manuscript.
Laurent Boudin, Marie Jeanne Denis, François Laurent, and Françoise Triffaux
of my French publishers, Belfond and Univers Poche, for introducing Rain to Le
Petit Célestin on the quai des Célestins and La Closerie des Lilas in
Montparnasse.
Naomi Andrews, for guiding me on all things French and Parisian, and for
helpful comments on the manuscript.
Lori (aka Laure) Kupfer, for continued insights into what sophisticated, sexy
women like Delilah wear and how they think, and for helpful comments on the
manuscript.
Paul Guyot, for inspiring Rain horologically.
Roberta Parks, M.D., Owen Rennert, M.D., Evan Rosen, M.D., Ph.D., and Peter
Zimetbaum, M.D., for continuing to answer my strange questions about the
medical implications of unarmed killing techniques, and for helpful comments
on the manuscript.
The extraordinarily eclectic group of “foodies with a violence problem” who
hang out at Marc “Animal” MacYoung’s and Dianna Gordon’s
www.nononsenseselfdefense.com. A special thanks to Marc himself, for sharing
his thoughts on leaving the life and coming to grips with the “dragon” within
and the “gray man”—thoughts that inspired and helped shape my notion of the
iceman, with whom Rain struggles in this book—and for helpful comments on the
manuscript.

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Dox’s stunning stream of invective in chapter 35 is courtesy of a rant by one
David Jefferson Bean, philosopher, iconoclast, owner and operator of the Bean
Machine, and brilliant blogger (http://mygreenhell.typepad.com). When Dave
gets up a head of steam, you’ll want to set down your coffee, lest you spew it
on your keyboard laughing—and nodding your head in stunned agreement.
Terry Trahan, who no longer clanks when he walks (but then again, he doesn’t
need to), for his insights on getting out of the life and on the fine art of
Weaselcraft.
Three men I count myself privileged to know have characters named after them
in this book: Wim Demeere, Frank “Pancho” Garza, and Montie Guthrie. In
addition to their names, the characters share some positive characteristics
with their real-world namesakes. But the characters also have certain…negative
characteristics, which are entirely fictional and have nothing to do with
these gentlemen as I know them. I say this because I wouldn’t want anyone to
mistakenly conclude that I hold Wim, Pancho, or Montie—friends and teachers
all—in anything other than the highest regard. Plus, they might beat me up or
shoot me if I didn’t provide a disclaimer. Special thanks to Montie, for
always taking my calls about firearms tools and tactics, and for helpful
comments on the manuscript. I hope it goes without saying that any firearms
mistakes in the manuscript are entirely Montie’s fault.
The line Rain recollects in Chapter 6, “Hell, I’ll kill a man in a fair
fight…or if I think he’s gonna start a fair fight,” is from Joss Whedon’s
terrific movie Serenity.
Eve Bridberg, Vivian Brown, Alan Eisler, Judith Eisler, Jack “Spook” Finch (no
pregnant yak he), Tom Hayes, Rachel Holtzman, Mike Killman, Yukie Kito,
novelist J. A. Konrath, Dan Levin, Doug Patteson, Matt Powers, Sandy Rennert,
Ted Schlein, Hank Shiffman, The Man Called Slugg, Pete Wenzel, and Caryn
Wiseman, for helpful comments on the manuscript and many valuable suggestions
and insights along the way.
I feel like I’m forgetting to mention someone…
Kidding. My wife, Laura, helps with, suffers through, and then enjoys these
books like no one else. Thanks for everything, babe.

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